HOUETTES 
 
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"Mr, Fawcett was the man of whom Longfellow expected 
 more than of any of the other young American authors, 
 both as a poet and a novelist." American Queen. 
 
 EDGAR FAWCETT'S WRITINGS. 
 
 SONG AND STORY. 
 
 i vol. Z2mo. Printed on imported hand-made paper, with 
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 " The Revue des Deux Mondes gives high praise to Mr. FAW- 
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 Emaux et Camees of Theophile Gautier." Beacon. 
 
 " Possessed of the singing voice, the artist's intolerance of 
 slovenly workmanship, and an unerring sense of proportion, 
 Mr. FAWCETT should fulfil the most sanguine expectations. 
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 haunt the brain after reading it." CHARLES G. D. ROBERTS, 
 in The Week. 
 
 TINKLING CYMBALS. 
 
 X vol. 1 2 mo. $1.50. 
 
 A brilliant novel of New York and Newport in the nineteenth 
 century, by one of its closest and most observing students. 
 " Enchantingly interesting." The Inter-Ocean (Chicago). 
 
 ADVENTURES OF A WIDOW, 
 x vol. i2mo. $1.50. 
 
 "Mr. FAWCETT is, without question, one of the best of our 
 younger novelists. . . . He is thoroughly at home among the 
 people and the scenes he chooses to depict." Beacon (Boston). 
 
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 pathos. ... He is irresistibly attractive." 
 
 TICKNOR AND COMPANY, BOSTON. 
 
SOCIAL SILHOUETTES 
 
 (BEING THE IMPRESSIONS OF 
 
 MR. MARK MANHATTAN) 
 
 EDITED BY 
 
 EDGAR FAWCETT 
 
 AUTHOR OF "THE ADVENTURES OF A WIDOW," "TINKLING CYMBALS, 1 
 " AN AMBITIOUS WOMAN," ETC. 
 
 BOSTON 
 TICKNOR AND COMPANY 
 
 1885 
 
Copyright, /55j, 
 By EDGAR FAWCETT. 
 
 All Rights Reserved. 
 
 ELECTROTYPED BY 
 C. J. PETERS & SON, BOSTON. 
 
p^ 
 
 JFrtentJ, 
 WHITELAW REID, 
 
 WHOSE VALUED ENCOURAGEMENT HAS STIMULATED ALL 
 
 THAT MAY BE OF WORTH IN THIS 
 
 VOLUME, 
 
 / CORDIALLY DEDICATE IT. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 I. THE LADY WHO HATES TO BE FORGOT- 
 TEN 1 
 
 II. THE YOUNG GENTLEMAN WHO SUCCEEDS, 13 
 
 III. THE DEMOCRATIC ARISTOCRAT .... 24 
 
 IV. THE YOUNG GENTLEMAN WHO ASPIRES . 35 
 V. THE YOUNG LADY WITH A MOTHER . . 48 
 
 VI. THE GENTLEMAN WHO LISTENS ... 63 
 VII. THE LADY WHO GROWS OLD UNGRACE- 
 FULLY 76 
 
 VIII. A MlLLIONNAIRE MARTYR 88 
 
 IX. A NINETEENTH CENTURY TITANIA . . 100 
 
 X. A TYPICAL NEW YORK MAN .... 114 
 XI. THE YOUNG GENTLEMAN WHO SAYS " OH, 
 
 MY!" 128 
 
 XII. THE LADY WHO INVADED NEW YORK . 141 
 
 XIII. A NEPHEW OF MINE 157 
 
 XIV. THE LADY WITH A SON-IN-LAW ... 172 
 XV. THE YOUNG MAN WHO IMAGINES . 185 
 
VI CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 XVI. THE LADY WHO CAN BE VULGAR WITH 
 
 SAFETY 200 
 
 XVII. AN ANGLO-MANIAC WITH BRAINS . . 211 
 XVIII. THE YOUNG LADY WHO TRIES Too 
 
 HARD . S 226 
 
 XIX. A PILLAR OF VIRTUE 238 
 
 XX. THE YOUNG MAN WHO PUSHES His 
 
 WAY . 255 
 
 XXI. THE LADY WHO REFORMED .... 270 
 
 XXII. THE DESTROYER OF FIRESIDES . . . 281 
 
 XXIII. A TYPICAL NEW YORK GIRL ... 294 
 
 XXIV. THE LADY WHO is CONSERVATIVE . . 310 
 XXV. THE GENTLEMAN WHO is GLIB . . . 326 
 
 XXVI. THE LADY WHO is SENSATIONAL . . 339 
 XXVII. THE GENTLEMAN WHO LIVED Too 
 
 LONG . . . . . 354 
 
SOCIAL SILHOUETTES. 
 
 i. 
 
 THE LADY WHO HATES TO BE FORGOTTEN. 
 
 I USED finely to take for granted, wlren I first 
 cast the most casually observing eye upon social 
 New York matters, that in the gaudy and dizzy 
 whirl which is summed up by " going everywhere," 
 the person or persons who went everywhere al- 
 ways felt the sure and keen spur of a permanent 
 enjoyment. It did not seem credible that the 
 special development which cynic, optimist, moral- 
 ist, or denunciator have all frankly conceded to 
 mean " society " could exist without a universal 
 desire and aptitude for sincere recreation. Those 
 who drank of the effervescing waters were thirsty, 
 and they drank because they thirsted. I had no 
 suspicion that they drank for any other reason. 
 I was young, and I had not yet learned my fellow- 
 ship with mortals who were like mills plashing 
 in an almost empty stream, and productive of no 
 appreciable grist. The apartments of my hosts 
 
 1 
 
2 SOCIAL SILHOUETTES. 
 
 were as yet, for me, halls dedicated to unmixed 
 diversion. I was prepared for inordinate folly and 
 for untold flippancy. I prided myself upon being 
 wise in my generation, and upon having my 
 wisdom as ready and tangible as the modish flower 
 in my button-hole. I felt within me a vast capa- 
 city for sneering and depreciating. I had culti- 
 vated a certain upward flourish of the hand 
 toward my mustache, and a certain sarcastic ele- 
 vation of the eyebrows. In my fresh and fervid 
 adolescence, I took the scriptural Solomon at his 
 word. It was all vanity. Of course it was. Miss 
 Van Dam, who had a neck like a swan's, and little 
 red-gold curls clustering dense and delightful just 
 at the milky nape of it who gave me a smile by 
 six good degrees brighter than that which she 
 gave to the famed despot of flirts, Dick Allegha- 
 ney who had "talked the German" with me for 
 three successive balls when at least twenty men 
 would have mortgaged the gloss of their radiant 
 boots to have had her as a partner yes, even 
 that sweet reigning bit of feminine deity, Miss 
 Van Dam, was all vanity, like all the rest of it. 
 Such was my superb, placid theory then. I knew 
 very well that there were many people in the gay 
 crowd who did not begin to get the nice zest from 
 it that I secured. But I accepted unthinkingly the 
 innocent belief that everybody attained some sort 
 of positive pleasure. I never thought otherwise. 
 It never occurred to me to think otherwise, at first. 
 But ultimately I drifted into the habit of observ- 
 
THE LADY WHO HATES TO BE FORGOTTEN. . 3 
 
 ing. Observation, for a man of brains, is a dan- 
 gerous mental mood. With the average man of 
 fashion it is quite harmless, and for reasons need- 
 less to state. 
 
 Those who affirm that I became an ironical and 
 merciless critic of New York society because Lucy 
 Van Dam rejected me and married that recent im- 
 portation of English idiocy, Lord Slantingforehead, 
 are at liberty to circulate their fatuous dogmas. I 
 care nothing for such baseless gossip. I esteem 
 it, indeed, a proof of weakness that I, Mark 
 Manhattan, should even respond by vague allu- 
 sion to their acrid aspersions. I have become an 
 observer for various reasons. Prominent among 
 these, I think, is a tendency toward preferring a 
 sensible book and a big, elastic lounge in my nice 
 suite of rooms at "The Bolingbroke," to inane 
 babble and suicidal brandy-and-soda at the Metro- 
 politan Club long after reputable hours. I sup- 
 pose that if I had not become an observer, 
 these impressions, which I now hand to my 
 good friend, Mr. Edgar Fawcett (and which he 
 will publish at his discretion, and with what- 
 ever alterations in the way of sjmtax or elimina- 
 tion his trusted taste may find proper), would 
 never have been written. 
 
 My first exploit as regards pure and simple 
 observation is directly traceable to Mrs. Rldgeway 
 Bridgeway. No one had ever before known the 
 Bridgeways until this lady insisted upon having 
 their importance brilliantly transpire. It was said, 
 
4 SOCIAL SILHOUETTES. 
 
 after she had successfully stormed the portals of 
 patrician favor, that she had effected her deter- 
 mined purpose of *' knowing people " because so- 
 ciety, languidly gazing at her ubiquitous card, had 
 half made up its mind that she must be a Ridge way 
 before soundly deciding that she was in reality a 
 Bridgeway. Everybody had, of course, heard of 
 the Ridgeways ; there had been a Ridgeway in New 
 York as far back as 1830. It was a pretty good 
 distance to recollect, but a few Knickerbocker 
 grandmothers had been able to revive their senile 
 intelligences and state that a family of Ridgeways 
 had once taken a house in Bond Street, had "got 
 about," and had afterward gone abroad. The 
 name had a certain half-spurious familiarity, 
 drowsily indorsed by fading grandmammas. But 
 Mrs. Bridgeway, who was not at all a Ridgeway, 
 profited by this dubious investigation. There is 
 no doubt that she rapidly secured a distinct pres- 
 tige. She had a large basement house in Thirty- 
 Seventh Street, and she issued cards to receptions 
 and dinners with a grandly reckless hospitality. 
 She introduced people to her husband, and in a 
 measure Mr* Bridgeway (who was a pale, quies- 
 cent man, with a probably ample fortune made in 
 some New England city) became mildly popular. 
 But he never achieved the salience (I will not say 
 popularity ) of his wife. He was always a kind 
 of matrimonial shadow. I can see him now, while 
 I write these confessions, looming at six good feet 
 of lank height, with his roseate baldness, his timid 
 
THE LADY WHO HATES TO BE FORGOTTEN. 5 
 
 articulation, his sallow visage, his tremulous eye- 
 glasses, his long, thin, restless hands, and his per- 
 petual roll of two rather glutinous, dead-gray eyes 
 in the direction of his dominating wife. 
 
 Dominating, in a connubial sense, Mrs. Ridgeway 
 Bridgeway indeed was. She had evidently long 
 ago put her husband in the background, and he 
 made a most conveniently neutral and unobtrusive 
 one. But she herself was an immense and com- 
 prehensive foreground. Not physically speaking, 
 but in the sense of a vivacious, feverish, and lit- 
 erally ebullient personality. She always impressed 
 me as a woman on the verge of the emotional boil- 
 ing-point. She had achieved her purpose when I 
 met her. She had got into society. She knew 
 pretty nearly everybody. I had the fancy that 
 she was civil to me because I had not got into 
 society, but because I had taken a hereditary posi- 
 tion there, and did not only know pretty nearly 
 everybody, but knew (or had the easy claim to 
 know) all people who were of the least note. But 
 if Mrs. Bridgeway was a strenuous snob, I never 
 found it out. Others may have made such discov- 
 ery; I did not. It takes a snob to cafch a snob, as 
 it takes a thief to catch a thief. Mrs. Bridgeway 
 and I met, and became undoubted friends. I saw 
 her everywhere. She never missed a kettledrum, 
 even ; there is enormous significance in that simple 
 statement, for the leaves of Vallambrosa are not 
 more multitudinous than at certain seasons are 
 the kettledrums of New York. I once retrospec- 
 
6 SOCIAL SILHOUETTES. 
 
 lively decided, at the end of a very festal Febru- 
 ary, that I had taken Mrs. Bridgeway in to dinner 
 twelve distinct times since the thirty-first day of 
 the preceding January. We were still excellent 
 friends, but I had now fully recognized and ac- 
 cepted one unpalatable fact : Mrs. Bridgeway 
 bored me. I failed wholly, at first, to compre- 
 hend why. 
 
 She was unquestionably pretty. Her figure was 
 spare, and with a hint of angularity ; but it was 
 very graceful, and she knew how to move and pose 
 it with a distinction that quite escaped glaring 
 assertiveness. She matted her blond hair in a sort 
 of fuzz low over her straight eyebrows and neatly- 
 cut nose ; she had eyes that were as actively gray 
 as her husband's were tamely so ; she possessed a 
 mouth whose smile might have been more ample 
 in its disclosures of white and shapely teeth, with- 
 out losing that charm which hid in the winsome 
 curl of its pink lips, or the nestling dimple at 
 either of its corners. And yet this woman bored 
 me. Not by any means that she was naturally 
 stupid or dull ; I had long ago decided that she 
 was dowered with a capable brain. Not by any 
 means that she chose heavy conversational sub- 
 jects; she always, on the contrary, revealed a 
 perfect willingness to discuss the most ordinary 
 flippancies. Not by any means that she carried 
 propriety to the verge of prudishness ; for although 
 her line, in this respect, was unmistakably drawn, 
 it lay just at the bounds of a pretty and whole- 
 
THE LADY WHO HATES TO BE FORGOTTEN. 7 
 
 some female dignity. Why, then, did Mrs. Ridge- 
 way Bridge way bore me ? I reflected ; I ratio- 
 cinated ; I summarized. And at length the truth 
 burst, vivid and indisputable. 
 
 Mrs. Bridgeway was bored herself. There lay 
 the succinct and lucid reason for my own ennui. 
 She was living a life of complete insincerity. Her 
 heart was not in her work. Her fashionable career 
 was conducted on automatic and mechanical prin- 
 ciples. She did not go out because she liked to 
 go out. She went out because she had a morbid 
 hatred of being forgotten. 
 
 The more I mused upon my discovery, the more 
 convinced I became of its vital truth. And nar- 
 row watching served only to fix my belief. She 
 enjoyed nothing in the sphere to which she had 
 dedicated her best energies and talents. She 
 found the pleasure of triumph, of having it said 
 and accepted that she was dans le monde, but 
 she found no other pleasure whatever. There 
 was something almost ghastly in her rigid adher- 
 ence to what she detested. She lacked the cour- 
 age to fling away her hand and quit the game. 
 She went on playing because others played 
 because it was the approved thing to do. She 
 had been bitten by a craving to have herself con- 
 ceded an aristocrat. She had lost the power of 
 securing any comfort from obscurity. If the whole 
 system of fashionable society had been swept out 
 of existence, she would have rejoiced. While it 
 continued, she must be in it and of it. She 
 
8 SOCIAL SILHOUETTES. 
 
 secretly despised and loathed it. She thought it 
 a vast pretension and sham. But she must pre- 
 tend among the pretenders, and sham among the 
 shammers. 
 
 I remember very clearly the special evening on 
 which I resolved to tell Mrs. Bridgeway of my 
 convictions. Of course, I meant to do so with all 
 due courtesy and discretion. It was after a par- 
 ticularly splendid dinner, of which we had been 
 common participants. When the gentlemen re- 
 joined the ladies in the great drawing-room, I 
 dropped into a soft easy-chair at Mrs. Bridgeway's 
 side. 
 
 " You did not enjoy the dinner at all," I boldly 
 began. " I was watching you across the table. 
 You seemed distraite, out of spirits." 
 
 She looked at me with unconcealed surprise. 
 Then she gave one of her high, clear, quick laughs. 
 She always had the same nervous mode of laugh- 
 ing as of speaking. 
 
 "You were too far away," she said. "That 
 accounted for everything." 
 
 " Ah, you don't mean what you tell me ! " I 
 ventured. " I am afraid, Mrs. Bridgeway," I went 
 on with unwonted earnestness and gravity, " that 
 you failed to enjoy the dinner for widely different 
 reasons." 
 
 " What reasons ? " she sharply asked. 
 
 "Very general ones, those which make you 
 fail to care for society under any of its con- 
 ditions." 
 
THE LADY WHO HATES TO BE FORGOTTEN. 9 
 
 "Who told you that?" she questioned with 
 tart briskness of tone. 
 
 " My own imagination is my sole informant," I 
 said, summoning all my amiability as I leaned 
 several degrees nearer to where she sat. 
 
 She drew a long breath, as though one of relief, 
 slightly closing her eyes. Presently she started 
 into a new posture. She laid one slim hand, in 
 its long glove, upon my arm, and then instantly 
 withdrew it. She was looking at me with exces- 
 sive earnestness. 
 
 "I see," she said, low of voice but quite rapidly; 
 "you have read me. You have found out my 
 secret. I often have wondered that nobody evel 
 did so before." 
 
 "Is it, then, a secret?" I asked. 
 
 "Oh ! a deep one. But I don't mind letting you 
 know it especially since you have guessed.it. I 
 don't enjoy society. I abominate society. There, 
 the truth is laid bare." 
 
 "But you go into society. You go more than 
 most women." 
 
 She shook her head in an odd way for an 
 instant. I perceived, too, that she was covertly 
 biting her lip. I realized that for once in her life 
 of form and ceremony she was radically sincere. 
 She no longer bored me now ; she interested me 
 extremely. I was prepared for her next words, 
 when they sounded, fleet, somewhat faint, and 
 rather close to my listening ear. 
 
 " I do go into society more than most women ; 
 
10 SOCIAL SILHOUETTES. 
 
 you are perfectly right in saying so. But I hate 
 it, all the same. I can't leave it ; it clings to me 
 like a burr. It was a sort of craze with me at 
 first. I sha'n't assume any airs with you ; you 're 
 a Manhattan ; you know I was n't anybody at the 
 start. I began in fine earnest ; I thought it splen- 
 did to be an aristocrat, to look down on the bour- 
 geoisie, to shine among the social elect. Well, do 
 I think so still? That is hard to answer. No 
 and yes. I have my moments of vast democratic 
 yearning. I have my convictions that I was 
 never meant by nature to move along in the 
 pompous and meaningless masquerade. Ah, Mr. 
 Manhattan, I have my resolves also." 
 
 " Your resolves ? " I queried. 
 
 " Yes. Indeed, yes ! I determine, on a certain 
 afternoon, let us say, to quit the whole nonsense 
 to make domesticity, repose, tranquillity, my 
 future aim and incentive. But when it becomes 
 evening, I ring for my maid ; I have myself dressed 
 for this or that ball and dinner. My good inten- 
 tions vanish in an hour or two. And there is only 
 one explanation of their departure. I hate the 
 idea of being forgotten. I could manage my good 
 intentions so easily if it were not for that one 
 wretched proviso leiiig forgotten! You will 
 say that such feeling implies a respect for the 
 fashionable world. But I have n't the remotest 
 respect for it. I think its frivolity disgusting and 
 shocking. Yet I can't help dreading the idea of 
 not being seen in it hereafter. There is a certain 
 
THE LADY WHO HATES TO BE FORGOTTEN. 11 
 
 vogue, chic, atmosphere, fascination, about it, that 
 will not let me leave it, try hard as I may. 
 And the whole matter comes simply to this: I 
 hate to have it forget me. If I were sure it would 
 still recollect me as one of its important members, 
 I would forswear all its festivities now and for- 
 ever." 
 
 "You want to reconcile distinction with ob- 
 livion," I said, perhaps a bit sententiously, but 
 with no lack of sympathy in my response ; for I 
 had a strong sympathy with Mrs. Bridgeway from 
 that moment. I had completely understood her. 
 She ceased, thenceforward, to bore me. Indeed, 
 she always afterward interested me, and we 
 became better friends than ever. 
 
 Later on I grew convinced that Mrs. Bridgeway 
 was, and still remains, a very typical personage. 
 The woman who hates to be forgotten forms a 
 most emphatic element of our modern society. 
 She does not care a button for the high place that 
 she has won, and yet you could not tempt her to 
 abate one jot of her supremacy. She is not a 
 votary of fashion ; she is a self-made martyr to it. 
 De colletS as may be her robe of shimmering satin, 
 or scant as may be her bosom-gear of tulle, there 
 is always a little chafing undergarment hidden 
 somewhere beneath, if only what one might 
 describe as a chemisette of serge. She scans the 
 morning paper, after every ball, with an avid eye. 
 If her name is not mentioned, if her costume is 
 not recorded, she suffers pangs of chagrin. Her 
 
12 SOCIAL SILHOUETTES. 
 
 matutinal roll becomes lead, and her draught of 
 fragrant coffee nauseous. Her crown is a thorny 
 one, but she would not give the ache of its wounds 
 for all the painless serenity you could offer. She 
 has borne off her palm from the struggle, and 
 though it now seems only a crackling, withered 
 leaf, she prizes and cleaves to it. Her intoxica- 
 tion is severely and terribly simple ; for the 
 woman who hates to be forgotten dreads the peril 
 of illicit flirtation, of reckless tampering with 
 res'pectability. She knows that one false step may 
 make her austerely and irrevocably forgotten, and 
 so she keeps her foot well aloof from any such im- 
 perilling abyss. For this reason her monotonous 
 goings and comings have a doleful tedium. She 
 is a voluntary captive who has long ago ceased to 
 find one note of music in the clank of her own 
 chains. But she cannot make the resolve to 
 bravely rise up and revolt against their bondage. 
 If she did so, her next step would be the attain- 
 ment of freedom. And what would the poor 
 creature do with her freedom, while incessantly 
 stung by the thought of how all her former fellow- 
 prisoners were quietly learning to forget that she 
 had once shared their durance? Learning to 
 forget ! Ah, there would lie the worst of tortures 
 for this woman who hates, above all things, to be 
 forgotten ! 
 
THE YOUNG GENTLEMAN WHO SUCCEEDS. 13 
 
 II. 
 
 THE YOUNG GENTLEMAN WHO SUCCEEDS. 
 
 BEFORE I began to observe in any critical sense, 
 I had got to know Verplanck Schenectady very 
 well indeed. From childhood I had always in- 
 vested his name with a certain reverence, which 
 even now, when I am thirty-four, I find that no 
 amount of republican radicalism and mature com- 
 mon sense will entirely overcome. My poor, dear 
 dead mother used to say to me, when I was surely 
 not older than twelve, " Mark, I hear that young 
 Verplanck Schenectady has such excellent man- 
 ners. His mamma is very proud of him. She 
 thinks he is going to be a great credit to the 
 family." 
 
 As years went on, this promise became fulfil- 
 ment. I don't know how Schenectady acquitted 
 himself at Oxford ; I did not go to Oxford myself, 
 but to Harvard. And a short time after his return 
 from abroad I met him. We were re-introduced, 
 one evening, at the Metropolitan Club. He was 
 nearly six feet tall, and excessively blond. He 
 had a pale face, with well-chiselled features, and a 
 pair of mild, dark-blue eyes. His hair, brushed in 
 two straight lines from its central parting rigidly 
 over either temple till it met either ear, expressed 
 
14 SOCIAL SILHOUETTES. 
 
 the sheen and compactness of metal. You had no 
 sense of any individual hairs ; it was all a miracle 
 of glossy attrition. He wore trousers and coat of 
 a faultless fit ; they had vertical creases in them, 
 here and there, as if they had been recently ex- 
 humed from a foreign trunk, though perhaps this 
 effect was due solely to the sedulous iron of his 
 valet. He held a pair of tawny dogskin gloves in 
 one white hand, on which glittered more than a 
 single costly ring. It had been "roundly stated at 
 the Metropolitan, not many hours ago, that he was 
 the undoubted possessor of seventy thousand dol- 
 lars a year, through his long-deceased father. " I 
 know it for a fact a fact, sir," had affirmed old 
 Yanderveer, who is the most dogmatic of our 
 many elderly genteel club gossips. But I have 
 long been a bristling sceptic with relation to all 
 Vanderveer's " facts," and his present confidence 
 of statement made me feel secure in placing 
 Schenectady's income at no higher than thirty 
 thousand dollars. 
 
 The young Oxonian shook hands with me very 
 warmly. "I'm awfully glad to meet you, old 
 chap," he said, with the most broadly British of 
 accents. He talked, afterward, for a good hour. 
 At the close of our converse I found it impossible 
 to recollect anything that my companion had said. 
 I could recollect his manner, however, and the 
 guttural drawl of his pronunciation, very clearly. 
 He seemed, indeed, to express nothing except man- 
 ner and pronunciation. He was not by any means 
 
THE YOUNG GENTLEMAN WHO SUCCEEDS. 15 
 
 a caricature; I should deplore implying that he 
 was in the faintest degree a caricature. The effect 
 which he produced upon me was one of prodigious 
 and overwhelming gentlemanliness. I can find no 
 other word than " gentlemanliness," and yet I do 
 not like the word. I have a fancy that an abso- 
 lute gentleman should never give you the idea that 
 he is one at all, that the belief of his being one 
 should rest latent and unobtrusive until some sug- 
 gested doubt calls it into activity, and then that 
 your assent should be cordially vehement, while 
 you remembered just how perfect a gentleman he 
 was. But with Schenectady, the assertion, in this 
 respect, became professionally manifest. He shift- 
 ed his feet, clad in their effulgent pointed shoes ; 
 he squared his elbows, in their tight-fitting broad- 
 cloth ; he changed the postures of his well-attired 
 person; he slapped his leg carelessly with his 
 grasped dogskin gloves ; he threw back his small 
 head, balustraded at the throat by its high, stiff 
 collar, he did, in short, every minor thing of 
 this unimportant kind, as though the movement 
 were a result of some special patrician art and 
 tact, and had been studiously cultivated, as well, 
 from vigilant watching of some valued model. He 
 seemed to me like a person of the most placidly 
 magnificent confidence in his own correctness. 
 There was something enviable about his disci- 
 plined security. All his little acts and gestures 
 appeared to have a pretty cachet upon them, like 
 the embroidered crest on a handkerchief. He 
 
16 SOCIAL SILHOUETTES. 
 
 employed the words "beastly," and "swagger," 
 and "filthy," and "jaw," and "rot," with so much 
 evident serene certainty in their entire fitness for 
 polite usage, that I began to acquire a reflective 
 confidence myself in his flawless behavior. He 
 must be right, I thought, because he was so calmly 
 convinced of his own decorum. If he had put his 
 feet upon the back of a chair, or dropped a frag- 
 mentary cigarette into my hock-and-seltzer, or skil- 
 fully upset one of our democratic spittoons by a 
 single kick, I don't know that I should have 
 viewed these acts at all harshly, in my present 
 enthralled mood. A little later, it is true, I might 
 have questioned the exact English authority for 
 their commission ; but perhaps even then I should 
 have had a lurking faith that they had all been 
 done before by exalted transatlantic dignitaries. 
 Schenectady drank nothing himself but Vichy. 
 " Thanks, no," he said, when asked to partake of 
 stronger refreshment; and the laconic refusal 
 seemed to convey an impressive hint that he 
 drank Vichy at this particular hour from no in- 
 clination so trivial as a merely personal one, but 
 because the drinking of it just now was sanc- 
 tioned by lofty foreign precedent. " I got away 
 with a lot of tipple where I dined," he was good 
 enough to add ; and this kindly admission saved 
 me, in the nick of time, from a sense of unpardon- 
 able inebriety. 
 
 But distance dissolved the aristocratic spell he 
 had wrought over me. I reflected upon him ; I 
 
THE YOUNG GENTLEMAN- WHO SUCCEEDS. 17 
 
 subjected him (if the words do not carry an inev- 
 itable sarcasm) to careful analysis. It was, indeed, 
 like tearing a butterfly to pieces and one whose 
 dust was gold-dust. On what subjects had he 
 spoken, after all ? A severe effort of recollection, 
 during which memory pushed its reluctant probe 
 through a solid crust of assertive mannerism, 
 assured me, that, outside of horses, dogs, "hunt-in'," 
 "yachtin','' "rowin'," "drivin' a coaoch," and 
 " boxin','' Mr. Schenectady had touched upon no 
 appreciable theme. His individuality was. summed 
 up for me in three items : clothes, deportment, and 
 athletics. Take from him these three cults, and 
 he would be as much among what we call the 
 lower order of animal life as were any of his own 
 favorite brutes. And yet, possessing these cults, 
 he was so representatively human ! Of intellect, 
 in its better grades, he gave not a sign. How he 
 had ever managed to have himself graduated at 
 Oxford seemed a marvel to me. This conjecture 
 also woke my sharp curiosity. When we next 
 met, which was soon, I had grown invulnerable to 
 his charms of artificial etiquette and punctilio, 
 although I had already heard his praises as "a 
 devilish fine fellow," and "a real thoroughbred 
 gentleman," sounded widely throughout the club. 
 But I was not to be blinded by popular adulation. 
 I wanted to see and judge and deduce for myself. 
 I had more than once heard it said of handsome, 
 fashionable fools, over-filigreed with smart embel- 
 lishments, that " they could be clever enough when 
 
18 SOCIAL SILHOUETTES. 
 
 they chose,'* or that "they had plenty of brains if 
 they only cared to use them, and don't you make 
 any mistake." I had grown seriously doubtful, of 
 late, as to any men possessing brains and not 
 caring to use them. I had stoutly made up my 
 mind that all men who possess brains are quite 
 sure to show and to use them, unless they are mad 
 enough to drug them with drink, or luckless enough 
 to have them enfeebled by illness. 
 
 I determined to confirm my theory now, or to 
 see it shattered. The next time that Schenectady 
 and I were seated together, I made a polite conver- 
 sational plunge. " Did you read hard while you 
 were at Oxford?" I asked. I had not been a 
 member of the Metropolitan ten years for nothing. 
 The Anglican current sets our way with a pretty 
 steady flow. I had long since learned that to 
 "read hard " at an English university is its insular 
 slang for respecting academic requirements. 
 
 Schenectady showed surprise. I had not seen 
 him show any till now. It was a very felicitous 
 and graceful quality of surprise, like everything 
 else about him. I am not sure just how he accom- 
 plished it, whether with a wave of his cigarette, or 
 a dexterous, transient little flurry of his trim eye- 
 brows. But it was very nice. If I had still 
 staid under his spell, I should have felt a dumb 
 longing to have him teach me how one could get 
 to be surprised in the same elegant way. 
 
 " Oh, I read rarther hard toward the larst," he 
 presently replied. " I had an awfully good chap 
 
THE YOUNG GENTLEMAN WHO SUCCEEDS. 19 
 
 for mee tewter. By Jove ! what a good chap he 
 was ! One o' the best riders in the country." 
 
 " I was n't aware," said I, mildly satirical, " that 
 good riding is one of the qualifications for a 
 degree at Oxford." 
 
 " Oh, bless my soul, no ! But Ferguson that 
 was his name, Ferguson, an awfully good chap 
 was n't merely a scholar, you know." 
 
 "Ah," I murmured, with a sly emphasis that 
 doubtless passed unnoticed, "not merely a scholar, 
 eh?" 
 
 " Oh, Lord, no ! He was a frightful sport. He 
 had n't a shillin' of his own, poor devil, and had 
 to caoach us 'varsity men for a livin'." 
 
 " And to pass your final examination, I suppose 
 you were required to be conversant with the most 
 difficult of the classic authors, Tacitus, Terence, 
 Sophocles, ^Eschylus, Theocritus, and others? " 
 
 Schenectady crossed his legs. He was in even- 
 ing dress, and as he made this slight motion a 
 little shimmer of light went down the broad 
 silken braid that overlay one seam of his black 
 trousers, meeting with a sort of tributary sympa- 
 thy the luminous shoe at its limit. 
 
 " Oh, yes ! " he said. " A feller 's got to be up 
 on a lot o' stuff like that. I carii't think haow I 
 quite managed it, now it 's all over." 
 
 "Have you retained a preference for any one 
 particular author? " I relentlessly inquired. 
 
 He burst into a laugh, which was very dulcet 
 and mellow, and showed his white teeth most 
 advantageously. 
 
20 SOCIAL SILHOUETTES. 
 
 " Oh, by Jove ! they 're all the same to me" he 
 jovially declared. "1 say, I carn't remember one 
 from another, now I 've done with 'em all." 
 
 " Really ? " I interpolated with amiable gravity. 
 
 "Quite so, I asshore you. I slipped through, 
 some 'aough. I carn't think, now it's all parst, 
 just haow I did it. I farncy it was Ferguson's 
 extrawdnerry caoachin'. We had an American 
 chap in my yeah, however, who carst nearly all of 
 us into the shade. He took a double-ferst. I 
 used to tell 'im he 'd redeemed the country, and 
 arsk him for a bit of his laurels to weah in mee 
 coat. I said it for charf, you know. His name 
 was Pratt ; he came from somewer in the West 
 I think it was Cincinnaati. He was awfully clever, 
 but a most horrid duffer not a gentleman a bit, 
 don't you know ? He used to wear false cuffs and 
 collars to his sherts, and change 'em of a mornin' 
 without changin' the shert. The other chaps 
 would charf 'im abaout that, but I never did. I 
 used to tell 'em it was none of their business 
 whether he were derty or no. But, on mee werd, 
 I never saw 'irn derty, though he said he read so 
 hard that he could n't spare the time for his barth 
 and a lot o' rubbish like that." 
 
 " If he took a double-first," I said (with perhaps 
 a little unconscious fatigue that some of my 
 acquaintances have construed as irony), "let us 
 hope he is now remorsefully bathing three or four 
 times a day." 
 
 From that evening I gave up Schenectady in 
 
THE YOUNG GENTLEMAN WHO SUCCEEDS. 21 
 
 despair. I satisfied myself that all the historic 
 loveliness of Oxford had fallen as flat upon him as 
 the night dews of Parnassus might fall upon a 
 browsing goat. After this I got to asking myself 
 how the girls of New York society would receive 
 him. Would lie be able to hold his own among 
 those five or eight elect belles who were in the 
 habit of lifting their pretty noses disdainfully at 
 every male admirer except a scant and superfine 
 twenty? Would he "take," as the phrase goes? 
 There have been cases where millionnaires did not 
 take. I ran over in my mind such cases, and found 
 that I could remember only five. One stuttered 
 agonizingly, another lisped abnormally, a third was 
 semi-idiotic, a fourth suffered from partial blind- 
 ness, and a fifth limped with hereditary chronic 
 gout. Schenectady, I concluded, after mature 
 reflection, would stand a chance of at least fair 
 social success. 
 
 But I soon found myself keenly in error. Sche- 
 nectady began his career of fashion at a small 
 german, given by his august reigning aunt, Mrs. 
 Poughkeepsie. He had not been in the rooms 
 more than half an hour before I saw him visibly 
 beamed upon by the one supreme belle of the 
 season. After this he did not merely succeed; 
 he was literally overwhelmed with admiration. 
 Femininity laid its choicest tributes at his shining 
 feet. He was thought faultless, exquisite, delight- 
 ful, superb. He never dined at the Metropolitan ; 
 invitations to dine elsewhere were showered upon 
 
 
22 SOCIAL SILHOUETTES. 
 
 him. He rarely had occasion to do more tnan 
 exchange a civil word or two with a wall-flower: the 
 splendid exotics, the Marechal Niels and Jacque- 
 minots of enchanting maidenhood, were bnt too 
 happy to bend toward him the full favor of their 
 exceptional and brilliant bloom. He had come, he 
 was seen, and he had conquered. I should also 
 add that he was heard before conquering. I often 
 marvelled how he could have been heard to any 
 conceivable advantage. But, marvel as I would, 
 his victory was in every sense a certainty. 
 
 It was a victory that set me thinking. I had 
 conclusively proven to myself that, apart from his 
 happy, graceful air, this young gentleman was a 
 mental vacancy. He expressed nothing, he repre- 
 sented nothing, he imparted nothing, he decided 
 nothing. All that sways and impels our great 
 century was a sealed book and a dead letter to his 
 drowsy, flaccid, viscous intelligence. He had been 
 in near contact with great minds, and had brought 
 away not even a glimmering reflection of their 
 greatness. " How scorching," I mused, " is the 
 comment his income of flattery makes upon the 
 tone and quality of that social body which so bows 
 before him ! If he is the man who succeeds in 
 New York society, how worthless are the equip- 
 ments required for success ! In Europe this tri- 
 umph of manner over matter, this petty surrender 
 of sense to superficiality, this worship of natal 
 accident and physical daintiness in the place of 
 solid merit and mental superiority, might be well 
 
THE YOUNG GENTLEMAN WHO SUCCEEDS. 23 
 
 enough. They have cringed so long, over there, 
 to mindless despotism and titled incompetence, 
 that all the follies they commit are clothed with a 
 sort of indulgent romanticism, like the ivy on their 
 feudal prisons and the gloom about their great 
 ecclesiastical paintings. But I don't think that 
 the brave little " Mayflower " steered its pale, half- 
 starved inmates through bleak storm of angry seas 
 to help them found an ancestry for such idle dal- 
 liers as Verplanck Schenectady. I think we meant 
 more than this when we bled at Lexington. I 
 believe we meant more when we held our own at 
 Yorktown. But, after all, we Americans have 
 grown old enough to have learned about the in- 
 gratitude of republics. Perhaps Schenectady 
 the man who succeeds is one of its living incar- 
 nations. 
 
24 SOCIAL SILHOUETTES. 
 
 III. 
 
 THE DEMOCRATIC ARISTOCRAT. 
 
 WHENEVER I think of Mrs. Abercrombie Smith, 
 I am always reminded of Mohammed's coffin, with 
 its legendary suspension between heaven and earth. 
 And my reason for such reminder is by no means 
 a recondite or a subtle one. Mrs. Abercrombie 
 Smith (it has never occurred within the recollec- 
 tion of any friend or acquaintance of this lady to 
 have heard her called the plain " Smith " without 
 the ornamenting and qualifying "Abercrombie") 
 has incessantly refused to be socially defined. 
 I don't assert that she has consciously opposed such 
 definition. It is my belief that she has allowed 
 herself to drift securely along on the current of her 
 own complex personality. 
 
 I call it a complex personality, because she is a 
 matron of no single discernible aim. With other 
 women of her distinct place and rank, you can tell 
 just what they desire to accomplish. They are 
 somebody, and they propose to remain somebody. 
 Empowered with precious prerogative, they retain 
 this through an unflinching determination. You 
 cannot woo or wheedle them into an imprudent 
 concession. Their drawing-room is their castle, 
 
THE DEMOCRATIC ARISTOCRAT. 25 
 
 and to storm their castle is to receive a prompt 
 broadside of imposing rebuke. They have their 
 unpurchasable smiles, their incorruptible clemen- 
 cies. Whom they will to receive, they receive ; and, 
 if by strategy you enforce from them reluctant 
 hospitalities, they know how to revenge themselves 
 by a future disfavor as polite as it is relentless. 
 
 But with Mrs. Abercrombie Smith I found this 
 order of affairs most amusingly reversed. She 
 was about five and forty when I first met her, 
 and handsome with that mature beauty which an 
 unaggressive embonpoint, a pair of unfaded hazel 
 eyes, two positively time-defying dimples and a 
 complexion of soft memorial bloom, will make any 
 woman of her admitted years. There was no 
 question about her right to rule and reign. She 
 was a Smith, but a special, particular, and even 
 phenomenal Smith. Multitudes of other Smiths 
 had obscurely lived and died. But her late hus- 
 band, who had also lived and died, had been the 
 near relative of untold Knickerbocker grandees. 
 I never saw him ; he was dead before my time, so 
 to speak. Nor have I ever known just why he was 
 so remarkable and exceptional a Smith; but I 
 assure the incredulous reader of these confessions 
 that there is not a grain of doubt regarding his 
 flawless origin. I cannot record who Mrs. Aber- 
 crombie Smith had herself been. Derogatory 
 whispers may once have sounded, but these had 
 long ago drowsed into respectful silence. The 
 overshadowing power of her matrimonial name 
 
26 SOCIAL SILHOUETTES. 
 
 may have covered any sort of hereditary origin. 
 It is my private opinion that Mrs. Abercrombie 
 Smith sprang from a very unknown stock. I like 
 to take this view, since it accounts for and justifies 
 the sinewy republicanism in her which I am on the 
 verge of chronicling. 
 
 She went everywhere. Nobody ever presumed 
 to question her right to go everywhere. Here lay 
 the pregnant and bitter source of her continuous 
 quarrel with society. It was a silent and furtive 
 quarrel, but it was none the less a pronounced one. 
 She ought to have been very popular, and she 
 could certainly have made herself so, with a little 
 circumspect effort, among the magnates who now 
 wholly mistrusted and dreaded her. I soon got to 
 know at least ten feminine leaders who would with 
 joy have erased her name from their visiting books. 
 But this was not possible. She was too important 
 an aversion. Everybody would instantly have 
 understood why they had dropped her. Such a 
 proceeding would have raised a hue and cry from 
 which the boldest legitimist in our dear democratic 
 city modestly shrank. It would have been to dis- 
 locate a pillar of society ; the whole classic edifice 
 would have quivered from the shock. She must 
 be endured, therefore, and courteously detested. 
 
 She represented a perpetual irreparable breach 
 in the walls of aristocracy. She was a foe in the 
 camp of the select. If she had worked her treasons 
 insidiously, from without, she might have been met 
 by a wrathful phalanx of opponents. But she 
 
THE DEMOCRATIC ARISTOCRAT. 27 
 
 worked them openly, from within. She was inces- 
 santly bidding the enemy enter, with a cool cour- 
 age that exasperated while it nonplussed her nat- 
 ural allies. She never proclaimed herself either 
 forgetful or scornful of what is meant by caste. 
 She simply assumed toward the whole matter a 
 kind of rebellious innocence, blent with a good 
 deal of sweet yet secure dignity. If you put to 
 her an adroit question or two on the subject of her 
 "position," she would respond with the nonchalant 
 serenity of a queen explaining some nice point of 
 usage to an interrogative courtier. 
 
 " She has always got some nobody in tow," said 
 a man of the gilded cliques to me, when I first 
 asked for a direct definition of her unconvention- 
 alism. "It is quite as often a man as a woman. 
 She gets people from the highways and hedges, and 
 drags them into decent places. She is forever 
 making society swallow somebody whom it does n't 
 want to swallow. I don't wonder that she tires 
 its abused larynx. Some day it ought to revolt 
 against another plebeian morsel. Some day I sup- 
 pose it will, and, for my part, I earnestly hope so." 
 
 A little later, one of my aunts a certain Mrs. 
 Rensselaer Rivington said to me, with a gentle 
 wail in her usually decorous tones, "My dear 
 Mark, I do think that something should be done 
 to stop that dreadful Mrs. Abercrombie Smith." 
 
 " To stop her, aunt ? " I inquired iteratively. 
 
 " Yes. You know I am going to give my Ger- 
 trude a Blue Room next Monday." (This was in 
 
28 SOCIAL SILHOUETTES. 
 
 the days of the old Fourteenth Street Delmonico's, 
 when a " Blue Room " at that charming edifice of 
 festivity meant a small evening entertainment 
 whence all the social strugglers were proscribed.) 
 " Of course I wanted it to be nice. But here is 
 Mrs. Abercrombie Smith, who writes me, request- 
 ing invitations for her 'two dear, intimate } r oung 
 friends, Miss Nutt and Mr. Blumenthal.' There 
 are certainly two hundred people, of the sort that 
 one knows and visits, whom I would much rather 
 have than either Miss Nutt or Mr. Blumenthal 
 whoever they maybe, with their outrageous names. 
 But my affair was to be a small one, and Mrs. 
 Abercrombie Smith was fully aware of it. Yet she 
 forces me to receive two strangers. It is simply 
 abominable ! Still, I might have been prepared 
 for her. She has done this horrid kind of thing 
 for years." 
 
 I followed up my aunt's grievance, so to speak, 
 and observed the lady and gentleman whom Mrs. 
 Abercrombie Smith had thrust upon her unwilling 
 civilities. The first was a pale girl with a rectilinear 
 band of flaxen hair across either temple, and a 
 notably demoralized way of carrying her fan. She 
 looked as if she might have come yesterday from 
 Topeka. Her large, mild blue eyes stared upon 
 her brilliant surroundings as though she were at 
 some kind of gaudy provincial fair, and every guest 
 were a decorated booth of special equipment. I 
 had a sensation, quite disconnected with irony, of 
 asking her whether she would permit me to procure 
 
THE DEMOCRATIC ARISTOCRAT. 29 
 
 her a tumbler of lemonade. Her loose, wide smile 
 had so saccharine a suggestion, that I am sure I 
 should have ordered the lemonade to be nice and 
 sweet. As for Mr. Blumenthal, he had a keen, 
 smooth-shorn face, whose small features, all strik- 
 ingly close together, gave the appearance of their 
 having fled from some sort of affright occasioned 
 by his large, expansive ears ; it looked, indeed, as 
 if his ears were something which had carried a 
 threat, like the inclosing vans of a carnivorous bird, 
 and thus caused a huddling together of brows, 
 nose, mouth, and even forehead as well. To narrate 
 more briefly, both of Mrs. Abercrombie Smith's 
 companions had the air of not being either native 
 or educated to their present surroundings. But 
 their suave patron apparently failed to perceive this. 
 She introduced them, as it were, broadcast. She in- 
 sisted upon their recognition, for the time at least. 
 
 They were short-lived favorites. I soon after- 
 ward met her with a professorial person whose 
 riotous amber beard incited the most uncharitable 
 thoughts regarding his evening toilet, and whose 
 green glasses made two specks of dense shadow on 
 all the airy, light-tinted gayety which prevailed. 
 The new protege was a person of scholarly distinc- 
 tion. All her comrades, of whatever sex, were 
 usually distinguished. They were always from 
 "somewhere," and had either done something 
 extraordinary themselves or boasted connection 
 with friends or ancestors who had a formidable 
 claim upon peculiar heed. 
 
80 SOCIAL SILHOUETTES. 
 
 But Mrs. Abercrombie Smith had another glaring 
 fault. She did not merely insist upon your recep- 
 tion of her variant constituency of followers. She 
 wanted you to meet within her own drawing- 
 rooms whomsoever she might chance to invite 
 there. "It is a perfect rabble," declared Caroline 
 Ten Eyck to me, while we stood together in a 
 throng assembled by this unparalleled hostess. 
 " All sorts of people are here. There is danger of 
 meeting your tailor or your dressmaker." 
 
 I could not help somewhat satirically answering 
 that this might be the reason for some well-known 
 masculine and feminine faces being absent. 
 
 " Oh, that 's just like you ! " exclaimed Caroline, 
 who has always accused me of cynicism, and who 
 is some sort of a cousin of mine, and therefore 
 privileged to break an occasional lance upon my 
 defensive cuirass. " But you know perfectly what 
 I mean, Mark. A few minutes ago I saw a man 
 with a lavender satin cravat." 
 
 " Is there any dark crime in wearing a lavender 
 satin cravat of an evening?" I replied. 
 
 Caroline tossed her comely auburn head, which 
 has such a curly grace just where the peachy tint 
 of her temple meets the dry, crisp tresses them- 
 selves. 
 
 " O Mark ! " she cried irritably, " I did n't say 
 it was a dark crime ! Call it whatever color you 
 please." 
 
 "I '11 call it a lavender crime, then," I returned 
 flippantly. 
 
THE DEMOCRATIC ARISTOCRAT, 31 
 
 Caroline is clever. She looked at me with her 
 lips prettily pursed, for an instant, and then said, 
 slightly misquoting Tennyson : 
 
 " I object to the person's cravat, all the same. 
 'There was that across his throat which one 
 would hardly care to see.' ' 
 
 I laughed, enjoying the bright nonsense, and 
 encouraged her in her random misquotation. 
 
 "Come, now, my sweet Lady Clara Vere de 
 Vere," I said, "let me tell you that you put 
 strange fancies in my head." 
 
 Caroline eyed me quizzically. "Don't ask me 
 to teach the orphan boy to read, or the orphan girl 
 to sew, Mark," she exclaimed, "for I do both. I 
 belong to a mission school, which includes " 
 
 " Refrain from vaunting your public charities," 
 I interrupted, "and give our hostess, Mrs. Aber- 
 crombie Smith, a little more private charity. She 
 is, in her way, a reformer, Caroline, quite as much 
 and pardon me if I presume to say it con- 
 siderably more than you are." 
 
 My cousin gave a haughty smile. " I can't see 
 a trace of reformation," she exclaimed, " in ridicu- 
 lously mixing sets." 
 
 " Of course you can't see it. I wish you could." 
 
 " How nice of you to pity me ! " softly cried 
 Caroline, who had her hot funds of spite. "Every- 
 body knows, Mark, that you are getting to be a 
 what is the new word? crank. You are said 
 to read Herbert Spencer and Duxley and Harwin, 
 and all those awful atheists, on the sly. You are 
 
32 SOCIAL SILHOUETTES. 
 
 said to be " Here my lovable, winsome little 
 cousin paused, and gave me a glance that was 
 meant to be pensively reproachful. " You are 
 said to be oh, yes, Mark ! you are said to be an 
 actual out-and-out Free-thinker! " 
 
 Under this anathema maranatha, I should per- 
 haps have had the civility to succumb ; but I did 
 not, and went on talking with Caroline in a way 
 that no doubt shocked her vastly, and was in 
 dread disaccord with the merry waltz music not 
 far distant. 
 
 Yet of course my cousin was right, from the point 
 of view of modern New York society, in what we 
 call its upper realms. Thus judged, Mrs. Abercrom- 
 bie Smith did have a rabble there that evening. 
 
 But I don't think that because a good many of 
 the unfamiliar figures of the men could n't ride a 
 steeple-chase at Jerome Park in the garb of 
 jockeys and be rapturously applauded for doing 
 so they were necessarily deserving of this truly 
 brutal substantive. Nor do I think that because 
 not a few of the ladies were dressed with vague 
 regard for the sovereign mode of the hour they 
 were for this reason contemptible. But I did not 
 tell Caroline Ten Eyck so. I find there is no 
 earthly use of telling any one so who is clutched 
 by the mordant preference as to " who is who " 
 and "what is what." 
 
 I afterward felt a solid, wholesome respect for 
 Mrs. Abercrombie Smith. I could not help 
 paying her this allegiance. There was something 
 
THE DEMOCRATIC ARISTOCRAT. 33 
 
 almost epical in the way she ignored the disap- 
 proving groans of those who constantly surrounded 
 her. All the great poets have won their renown, 
 posthumous as it has usually been, from daring 
 popular disesteem. Mrs. Abercrombie Smith was 
 not a great poet; I am convinced that a large 
 share of mundane prose entered into her well- 
 governed and cordial disposition. Bat she was, 
 nevertheless, whether consciously or unconsciously, 
 a perceptible and uncorrupted reformer. 
 
 Nothing could make her swerve. She continued 
 her career as a democratic aristocrat with unalter- 
 ing consistency. She directed the bright, firm ray 
 of her genial smile well over the reach of her 
 detractors, but she somehow managed to turn it, 
 with a glowing condescension, down into the eyes 
 of all her friends. 
 
 She remains supreme until the present day. She 
 is the visible lament of the exclusionists. As I 
 wrote before, she pushes from within, and not from 
 without. But she is comfortably and ineradicably 
 within. She is like the presidential levee at Wash- 
 ington : you may dislike her, but you can't abolish 
 her. 
 
 It seems to me that she is by no means the neces- 
 sary evil which I hear her so frequently called. I 
 should name her, on the contrary, an accidental 
 but cogent good. She might have been an uncom- 
 promising and feudal snob. She remains, and will 
 remain, a generous-handed dispenser of social pass- 
 ports. 
 
84 SOCIAL SILHOUETTES. 
 
 Long may she viser them with the sunny and 
 careless indulgence ! 
 
 If she were outside of the small, restricted world 
 in which her intrinsic gifts of dominance yet keep 
 her a power, if she were, in fact, a political head 
 or a stanch pioneer in any great question of 
 popular zeal and heat, I should fling off my cap 
 to her (though it is n't a cap, but only a glossy, 
 modern-shaped cylinder of a " stove-pipe ") and 
 cry with stout ardor, like any of the historic rebels 
 we read about, "Long live Mrs. Abercrombie 
 Smith, the democratic aristocrat ! " 
 
THE YOUNG GENTLEMAN WHO ASPIRES. 85 
 
 IV. 
 
 THE YOUNG GENTLEMAN WHO ASPIRES. 
 
 I SOON found that New York society represents 
 continuous change. It is like that development 
 from the homogeneous to the heterogeneous of 
 which we are so ably told in Spencerian philoso- 
 phy. Certain portions are in an incessant state of 
 disintegration, it is true, wrought by all kinds of 
 circumstantial causes, from a departure abroad 
 to a financial felony, from a commercial disaster 
 to the great levelling ill of death itself. But these 
 adverse forces, affecting the whole system destruc- 
 tively, only confirm the justice of my evolutional 
 parallel. As fast as fashion dies, so fast is it born 
 again. As fast as it fades, so fast does it bud. 
 Newly-gotten wealth and newly-acquired ambi- 
 tion feed it with an unfailing current. It always 
 has its people who are " beginning to get about." It 
 does not know the solid debt which it owes to this 
 auxiliary power. But I suppose its perennial 
 ingratitude is only a part of the entire wise and 
 beautiful plan. As individuals, we rarely cast a 
 thought upon the wholesome fuel of air which we 
 breathe into our lungs, how many times out of 
 every twenty-four hours, I am not physiologist 
 
36 SOCIAL SILHOUETTES. 
 
 enough to record. And no doubt aristocracy 
 would be darkly shocked if it were once called 
 upon to realize its truly vital kinship with plebeian- 
 ism. Perhaps its dainty nerves merit better treat- 
 ment than even a vague allusion to this frigid fact. 
 There is something so actually grisly, for the loyal 
 scion of caste, in being reminded that such loud, 
 rude thoroughfares as the Bowery and Third Ave- 
 nue and Avenue A contain not a few living ances- 
 tors of exquisite future ball-givers and ball-goers h 
 I confess that the contemplation of so austere a 
 truth must be horrifying to any well-ordered pa- 
 trician mind. And yet I, who like to face all 
 social truths', cannot help feeling it extremely 
 probable that my grandchildren may one day in- 
 termarry (and perhaps somewhat triumphantly at 
 that) with the grandchildren of the man who 
 shovels snow from my smart doorstep in winter 
 for fifty cents, or of the shabbier fellow-citizen 
 who dumps my auroral ashes into his cart for no 
 wage whatever. 
 
 When Mr. Lysander Dingley first swam into my 
 ken, I recollect wondering whether his energetic 
 fins were not of a most humble inherited fibre. 
 But I afterward discovered that this young gen- 
 tleman had followed a more gradual impulse of 
 progress, and that, instead of springing directly 
 from " the people," he had been saved the calam- 
 ity of this direct contact by having had a single 
 generation kindly intervene. 
 
 The senior Dingley had made a neat fortune as 
 
THE YOUNG GENTLEMAN WHO ASPIRES. 37 
 
 a retail furrier, and was quite destitute of proud 
 aspirations. I never saw him, but I can picture 
 him as philosophically settling doAvn among the 
 soft accommodations of his mink-skins, ermines 
 and sables, to ignore those rigorous exposures 
 which, for a man who would scale, late in life, the 
 bleak ramparts of aristocracy, are sometimes little 
 less than arctic. But his son, Lysander, had no 
 such placid wisdom. Lysander had been festally 
 inclined from the age of one and twenty. The 
 facts which I am about to narrate concerning his 
 
 O 
 
 career were secured some time after my first 
 acquaintance with him ; but as a faithful biog- 
 rapher, who would nothing extenuate nor set down 
 aught in malice, I shall give them their early and 
 due place in his written history. 
 
 Like so many of our New York youths, Lysan- 
 der had entered Columbia College at the absurdly 
 immature age of sixteen. He was quick and 
 clever at his studies, and rapidly took a high place 
 in his class. He was very ambitious, too, of all 
 sorts of distinction. There were some sorts of 
 distinction regarding which he had only the most 
 indefinite views. At the same time he had the 
 generally definite view that he wished to excel 
 wherever excellence was possible. Early in his 
 freshman year, Lysander made a distressing dis- 
 covery. He had joined the wrong secret societ} r . 
 In Columbia this has a most piercing significance. 
 At his especial period there were two dominant 
 and co-regent secret societies in the college, whose 
 
38 SOCIAL SILHOUETTES. 
 
 members were mostly chosen for claims of lofty 
 and influential parentage. The young men be- 
 longing to these two organizations (whose private 
 deeds or misdeeds were wrapped in severe dark- 
 ness) wore little gold enamelled pins on the lappets 
 of their waistcoats, bearing two or three Greek 
 letters of most ennobling importance. Members 
 of the other, less-honored bands wore little pins as 
 well ; but between their sacred insignia and those 
 of the truly elect dwelt chasms of difference. It 
 was like comparing the Garter and the Golden 
 Fleece with certain obscure European orders. 
 Lysander Dingley soon felt that he was emphati- 
 cally one of those who had neither been called nor 
 chosen. But it was too late for rebellion or resti- 
 tution. He had taken his weird vows of eternal 
 allegiance to the Sigma Omega, and a Sigma 
 Omega he must remain till Doom's Day or at 
 least Commencement Day and even after. He 
 rapidly perceived that he had but one consolatory 
 course left. He must be stoutly loyal to the 
 Sigma Omegas, and yet seek outside affiliation, and 
 intimacy with the sleek, dapper, dandified young 
 Omicron Psis and Beta Alphas. But in this nice 
 scheme he utterly failed. He gradually recog- 
 nized the bitter and galling fact of his stigmatized 
 position. Harry Van Corlear and Johnny Wee- 
 hawken were not to be propitiated. He mur- 
 mured to them in the class-room the required 
 second-aorist which saved them from recitational 
 disgrace ; he whispered to them with adroit benevo- 
 
THE YOUNG GENTLEMAN WHO ASPIRES. 39 
 
 lence, while standing at a contiguous blackboard, 
 the magic " open sesame " to some stubborn 
 enigma in Legendre. But his good offices were of 
 no avail. Harry and Johnny always accepted 
 such favors with easy suavity. They scarcely 
 ever had time to study; they were immensely 
 fashionable, in their beardless, adolescent way ; 
 they had repeatedly been to some " affair " the 
 night before, and would sometimes drop into the 
 college grounds with a rather stale and limp-look- 
 ing rosebud for a boutonniere, as if they had 
 selected it from a number of others procured in 
 the german recently danced. They thought Ly- 
 sander wholly interested in his courtesies, which 
 he indeed was, and so chose to value them accord- 
 ingly. Harry was an Omicron Psi, and Johnny 
 was a Beta Alpha, and they were both unconscion- 
 able young snobs, after that remorseless and rea- 
 sonless manner in which only very young persons, 
 of whatever sex, dare to be snobs. 
 
 Lysander Dingley used to find himself wishing 
 that he had been where those wilted rosebuds had 
 been the night before, and wishing it with a force 
 that gradually took an almost monomaniacal form. 
 Most metropolitan colleges are of slight academic 
 worth. They are colleges which are in reality 
 mere high schools, as often has been said. The 
 esprit de corps among their disciples is a shadow, 
 and the professorial influence, discipline, super- 
 vision, becomes of necessity a nominal form. 
 Lysander might have left Dartmouth or Rutgers a 
 
40 SOCIAL SILHOUETTES. 
 
 sensible fellow. He was graduated from Columbia 
 a pushing, striving, selfish time-server, bitten by 
 the feverish desire to do nothing better in the 
 world than get himself " asked out." He stood as 
 a conspicuous and lamentable type. I feel sure 
 that his kind are being graduated every year just 
 as he was, and preparing for an ignoble struggle 
 with useless assailants, just as he did. Pie means 
 one of our many astonishing republican evils. Of 
 course he is not to be blamed. He is not a cause : 
 he is an effect. You may tell me, if you please, 
 that you have found him in Europe. To this I 
 will only answer, that if he is found there after 
 six or seven centuries, all the more reason why he 
 should not be found here after one century. 
 
 His first efforts were pitiable. I used to wit- 
 ness some of them : so I can now continue this 
 precious memoir with renewed confidence. It had 
 transpired that he was the son of "Dingley the 
 Fur-Man." Everybody knew or had known 
 "Dingley the Fur-Man." He had warmed more 
 of our New York dowagers in their sleighs and 
 coaches than it would be easy to tell. This was 
 doubtless only an added reason why they should 
 receive his son coldly. And they certainly did so. 
 
 But Lysander persevered. I saw and closely 
 watched him while he was persevering. At this 
 time he had a tall and rather well-made figure, a 
 supple and decisive way of moAdng about a room, 
 and an apparel of distinct elegance. But his face 
 was plainly against him. It has been left last in 
 
THE YOUNG- GENTLEMAN WHO ASPIRES. 41 
 
 my description, and deserves to be. It was rug- 
 gedly irregular of feature, and its nose had an 
 abnormal aquiline curve. Its lack of beauty 
 was indeed a presence of ugliness. It was a sharp 
 and incisive impediment against success. "How 
 homely he is ! " became a current comment as 
 soon as he had compelled people to admit that he 
 was at all. But his genial and full smile, dis- 
 closing unflawed teeth, was by no means against 
 him ; it was indeed with him, and he smiled very 
 often. 
 
 I used to wonder how he could smile so amply, 
 considering his constant rebuffs. "I will not 
 know him," said Rose Rivington to me one even- 
 ing, with her facile curl of as pretty a lip as ever 
 nature gave to any girl yet on the verge of her 
 twenty-third birthday. " I think a line should be 
 drawn somewhere, and I propose to draw it just 
 there." 
 
 But Rose was asked to know him before that 
 evening was over, and murmured an unwilling 
 consent. He had got somebody to present him. 
 He was always getting somebody to present him. 
 I was standing not far away from Rose, and wit- 
 nessed the introduction. He asked her to dance 
 and, by the way, he danced extremely well. 
 Rose refused. I caught the words u so tired " from 
 her languid lips, and that was all. About ten 
 minutes later I saw her dancing with that caddish 
 little Englishman, Tom Steeplechaser, whose only 
 possible matrimonial remeignement was that he 
 
42 SOCIAL SILHOUETTES. 
 
 could introduce any rich American girl who 
 might many him to a Scotch third-cousin, Lord 
 Willothewisp. But still later, during the progress 
 of the german (which, by the way, our hostess 
 kindly asked me to lead myself), I saw Lysander 
 Dingley approach the haughty Rose and "take 
 her out" with a splendid amiability. Lysander 
 danced himself, that evening, with Lucy Ilacken- 
 sack, a young girl of supernatural height and 
 proverbial stupidity. Poor Miss Lucy was a wall- 
 flower of six acknowledged seasons, and had gone 
 home partnerless from more balls than it would be 
 decorous or even gallant for me now to chronicle, 
 especially if I had kept count of their mortifying 
 number. 
 
 The season ended. Lent laid its lulling shadow 
 upon all festivity. Lysander Dingley had aspired, 
 and had not succeeded. We all knew this. And 
 yet we all conceded the fact that somehow it 
 was useless to unravel the complicated problem of 
 " how " Lysander had managed to make his face 
 and figure and name a fact, if not a factor, in po- 
 lite select assemblages. 
 
 During the ensuing summer, his father died. It 
 afterward fell to my knowledge that " Dingley the 
 Fur-Man " had been very parsimonious with his 
 son as regarded all personal expenditures. But at 
 last the old gentleman was as dead as one of his 
 own minks or otters. Lysander, long motherless, 
 was left the whole bulk of the fortune. I realized 
 something which had not previously dawned upon 
 
THE YOUNG GENTLEMAN WHO ASPIRES. 43 
 
 me. Lysander, though eager enough to thrust 
 himself among the holy of holies, had never, to my 
 knowledge, laid more than a very occasional 
 bunch of Cornelia Cook or Crloire de Paris roses 
 at the feet of any lady no, not even at those of 
 the ostracized Lucy Hackensack. But now in 
 perhaps the last week of Lent who but Rose 
 Rivington herself should say to me at an afternoon 
 tea, whither I had rather aimlessly strolled : 
 
 " I got such lovely flowers from poor Mr. Ding- 
 ley this morning. I have a few of them in my 
 dress now, this great Crloire de Paris kind. 
 Don't you think them sweet? Poor fellow, he 's 
 feeling so dreadfully about his father ! " 
 
 I looked at Rose firmly. She is a sort of cousin 
 of mine ; all the Rivingtons are more or less re- 
 lated to all the Manhattans. But Rose did not 
 flinch. That amber eye of hers, which has in it 
 the ray of the topaz, and so matches her sweet, 
 negligent opulence of tawny hair, wore as cool 
 a gleam under her Parisian bonnet as though I 
 had just ventured something blankly common- 
 place, like the prophecy of an early spring. Rose 
 was the heiress of at least three millions. Every- 
 body knew the blocks of houses owned by her 
 dead grandfather, of whom she was the sole 
 grandchild. Her refusal, two seasons ago, of 
 Lord Romp, eldest son of the Duke of Pomp, is 
 almost a matter of history. 
 
 " Do do you actually like Lysander Dingley?" 
 I murmured, almost aghast. 
 
44 SOCIAL SILHOUETTES. 
 
 Rose froze me with one of her polar looks. " I 
 think Mr. Dingley charming," she said with an 
 audacity that had in it the element of the sublime. 
 " And I do hope, Mark," she went on, assuming a 
 manner of amazing confidence, "that if you have 
 any disagreeable things to say about him, you 
 will reserve them for some one who is not his 
 friend." 
 
 A little later Johnny Weehawken (now a full- 
 grown grandee of four and twenty) said to me one 
 afternoon in the hall of the Metropolitan Club : 
 
 "Just been to such a lovely breakfast at Del- 
 monico's. Ly Dingley gave it." 
 
 " Yes? " I murmured, raising my brows, involun- 
 tarily surprised. (Lysander had now become " Ly " 
 to this Columbian foe this relentless Beta Alpha 
 of former days.) " Was it a large breakfast ?" I 
 questioned. 
 
 " Not very," came the drawled response. " Miss 
 
 Hose Rivington was there, and the two Desbrosses 
 
 girls, and a little Miss Riverside (of the Hudson- 
 
 . Riversides, you know, just back from abroad), 
 
 and Harry Van Coiiear." 
 
 "Harry Van Corlear!" I thought. "The re- 
 lentless, the implacable Omicron Psi ! " 
 
 But I said nothing, and presently Johnny Wee- 
 hawken resumed, while lighting a new cigarette : 
 " Poor Ly made it small because he "s in mourning 
 for his guv'nor, don't you know?" 
 
 "Dingley the Fur-Man," I said, without betray- 
 ing myself by the quiver of a muscle. 
 
THE YOUNG GENTLEMAN WHO ASPIRES. 45 
 
 "Eh? All? Yes," said Johnny, puffing indus- 
 triously at his cigarette. But I saw that he did 
 not like it at all. I saw that he thought I was in 
 very bad taste. Still, he soon broke into a little 
 compulsory laugh, and clapped me on the shoulder. 
 " I say, Mark ! " he exclaimed, " we must n't think 
 of all that stuff any more. Ly 's an awfully good 
 chap. We were in college together Columbia, 
 you know. I always liked him then, and stood 
 up for him. And, by Jove ! I 'm going to do it 
 now." 
 
 Johnny Weehawken looked me full in the eyes 
 as he made this last remark. He did not flinch 
 any more than Rose Rivington had flinched. His 
 gaze was honesty itself. 
 
 I have concluded that the quailing eye is all a 
 myth. There is nothing so honest as the calm, 
 clear, frank gaze of the man who knows he is act- 
 ing the part of a fraud, and that you seriously sus- 
 pect it, and that he must do his best to make you 
 believe the contrary. . . . Next autumn, in a dog- 
 cart of surpassing nicety and style, attired in the 
 deepest mourning, and having Miss Rose Riving- 
 ton beside him, I saw Lysander Dingley at the 
 Jerome Park races. 
 
 I am always rather abrupt with Rose. Perhaps 
 I have always presumed too boldly upon our kin- 
 ship. However this may be, I got near her at the 
 Grand Stand, and contrived to have a little old-time 
 sort of chat. 
 
 " Are you bringing that fellow Dingley out in 
 
46 SOCIAL SILHOUETTES. 
 
 good earnest?" I asked her presently with a cous- 
 inly familiarity. 
 
 Rose turned her back upon me, and would not 
 speak to me for the rest of that day. 
 
 The autumn faded into winter. When the enter- 
 tainments began, I met Lysander Dingley every- 
 where. His father had left him, they said, two 
 millions. I halved the two millions, as I always 
 do, in cases of florid report. One was comfortable, 
 at least. 
 
 I expressed this sentiment openly to Johnny 
 Weehawken at the club. I still opposed the son 
 of "Dingley the Fur-Man." Besides, I had heard 
 of how attentive he was to Rose. And in spite of 
 all intense republican theories, when it comes to 
 mating our kinsmen or kinswomen to people " out- 
 side our set," the very best of us rationalists and 
 radicals will recoil. 
 
 " Oh, Ly 's got two good millions, Mark, and 
 don't forget it," said Johnny, illuming a new 
 cigarette. "And don't you run down his fortune, 
 of all men. Have n't you heard the news ? " 
 
 " What iieAvs ? " I queried. 
 
 " Why, his engagement. He 's engaged to your 
 cousin, the great heiress and belle, Rose Riving- 
 ton. It was announced at the Fyshkilles' dinner 
 to-night. Absolute fact, my dear fellow ; I *ve just 
 come from there. I assure you there 's no mis- 
 take." 
 
 There was no mistake, as I soon learned. I kept 
 a very straight face while I afterward congratu- 
 
THE YOUNG GENTLEMAN WHO ASPIRES. 47 
 
 lated Lysander Dingley. I tried to keep a very 
 straight face, also, while I congratulated Rose. 
 But perhaps I broke down a little in this last 
 attempt. 
 
 Several months later, when the marriage took 
 place, I found myself called to Washington or 
 was it Philadelphia? But I sent Rose a wedding 
 present. It was as handsome a sable muff as I 
 could procure. 
 
 But Mrs. Lysander Dingley never acknowledged 
 the gift., though I made sure that she had 
 received it. 
 
48 SOCIAL SILHOUETTES. 
 
 V. 
 
 THE YOUNG LADY WITH A MOTHER. 
 
 I SOMETIMES think that there is a mighty amount 
 of surreptitious heroism in the world. Especially 
 in the narrow sphere allotted to women, does one 
 often find indomitable- traits of pluck, nerve, 
 energy, which might have made an actual historic 
 fame for their possessors if directed in channels of 
 philanthropy, ethics, or even, let us say, of right- 
 eous revolt. But feminine capability is too often 
 like a plant of hardy and wholesome vigor, that, 
 instead of striking deep roots into as much rich 
 earth as it may choose for sustenance, must bound 
 its desires by the cylindrical duress of a common 
 flower-pot. It frequently does very well in the 
 flower-pot ; it thrives there with a wondrous thrift ; 
 it unfolds for us leafage of unrivalled texture, and 
 stars its greenery with perfect blooms. But we 
 feel, nevertheless, how stouter might have been the 
 fibres of its stem, how much more luxuriant and 
 assertive the whole personality of the plant. 
 
 Miss Fanny Williams has always suggested to 
 me this idea of cramped opportunities. I have 
 always thought that she did wonderfully well in 
 her flower-pot, but have concluded that she would 
 
THE YOUNG LADY WITH A MOTHER. 49 
 
 have flourished more brilliantly, if not better, in a 
 wide, unrestricted soil. I am afraid that those who 
 care to observe this little fragment which I shall 
 now present from her brave and noteworthy biog- 
 raphy, will be prone to accuse me of very cynic and 
 worldly views. They will declare her as duteous 
 iii her way as if she had been a new Jeanne d'Arc. 
 But after all this has been admitted of Miss Fanny, 
 the stern fact still remains that her allotted world 
 was a narrow world, and that her efforts were under 
 the ban of a severe circumstantial veto. 
 
 She was scarcely more than eighteen when I first 
 met her. It was quite a fortuitous meeting. I had 
 spent a day of successful and exhilarating blue- 
 fishing with my friend Jack Gramercy in his 
 yacht, on Long Island Sound. At evening we 
 disembarked just where Jack's beautiful estate of 
 White Sand shelves its pure beach down to the 
 sea, from a lawn so green and trim that I fancy a 
 stray daisy would glare discreditably on 'its neat 
 slopes, and entered his ancestral home by that dire 
 portico of his, with its appalling Grecian pillars of 
 white-painted wood. Jack knows very well how I 
 loathe that portico, reared as an insult to architec- 
 ture by one of his Knickerbocker grandfathers. 
 He used to argue with me that it was not dire, but 
 he does so no longer. He once urged, in the heat 
 of dispute, that it was Ionic, and I dare say my 
 laugh was impertinently shrill. As there are a 
 good many horrors of the same sort on Long Island 
 and in Westchester County, Jack felt himself priv 
 
50 SOCIAL SILHOUETTES. 
 
 ileged to cheaply accuse me of sneering at my own 
 land with, random satire, because it was n't Europe. 
 We nearly had a quarrel then, over that awful 
 travesty on the calm, grand Greek style by which 
 one is permitted to enter the most hospitable and 
 lovely interior that I know. But something saved 
 us from a quarrel that day ; if I rightly remember, 
 it was some turn of phrase that I made about an 
 American Parthenon, to which my friend replied 
 by a sombrely unwilling giggle that ruined his 
 cause and made us shake hands in armistice if not 
 precisely truce. 
 
 On this special evening we passed from the yacht 
 under the bastard portico without an arriere pensee 
 of former disputes. Perhaps we were both too 
 anxious for the welcome change of linen and the 
 welcome dinner which awaited us. At dessert, 
 over our coffee and cigars, Jack rather drowsily 
 murmured something about " a hop at the hotel " 
 that same evening. 
 
 "I know what 'a hop' means, Jack," I said 
 somewhat airily ; " and I think it such a hateful, 
 petty little word when used to tell of men and 
 women meeting together for a social dance, that I 
 devoutly regret it is an Americanism. But as for 
 the ' hotel,' I confess that I don't at all know about 
 that. How long since there has been a hotel 
 within miles of your White Sand ? " 
 
 " Oh, ages," said Jack. " We '11 drive over, if you 
 say so. It 's a drowsy, disconsolate old building, 
 with a ball-room that has a wainscoting painted 
 
THE YOUNG LADY WITH A MOTHER. 51 
 
 iii shiny drab, like an ancient cupboard, and some 
 evil prints on its wall of Washington crossing 
 the Delaware, taking the oath, and doing numerous 
 other memorable acts." 
 
 I found Jack's sketch of the ball-room by no 
 means too caustic a one, when we both entered 
 it, about two hours later. I suppose there must 
 have been at least sixty people present. I at 
 once noticed a preponderance of elderly ladies with 
 worsted shawls. 
 
 They sat glued against the drab wainscoting in 
 various attitudes of observation, rumination or 
 depression. It seemed to me that few of them 
 expressed anything like approbation. I wondered 
 why they did not go to bed or go elsewhere, since 
 they apparently had no concern with the merry 
 little children who whirled about together in hoy- 
 denish disregard of the gallantry between sexes, 
 or with the numerous very pretty damsels whose 
 male partners were mostly dapper and volatile, but 
 by no means prepossessing. 
 
 It was on this evening, and amid these environ- 
 ments, that I drifted into the acquaintance of 
 Fanny Williams. I can see her now, as if I held 
 a photograph instead of a pen. She was standing 
 under a high kerosene lamp, and she had just 
 finished dancing with a young gentleman in very 
 ample white pantaloons and a sack-coat of ethereal 
 alpaca. She did not want to dance any more, 
 and the 3 r oung gentleman, in some satyric mood 
 induced by the rasping fiddle and the husky trom- 
 
52 SOCIAL SILHOUETTES. 
 
 bone, apparently wanted her to dance more. I 
 saw her shake her head with decision just before 
 I was presented, and I recall being struck with the 
 way in which she moved it. There was grace 
 blent with the refusal. Her gesture indicated a 
 distinct knowledge of her own mind, even on this 
 trivial subject. 
 
 When I was presented to her, and had talked 
 with her a little while, I concluded that she was 
 not at all handsome. She had not a perfect feature 
 in her face, ,nor even a suggestion of beauty as 
 regarded coloring. I must now use an almost 
 amazing word with which to describe her, and I 
 would not use it if I could conscientiously sub- 
 stitute any other, in my capacity of faithful chroni- 
 cler. It is the word "cleanliness." Everything 
 about the girl expressed the idea of an extreme 
 physical purity. She had not a hint of coquetry ; 
 her eyes were a neutral and rather rayless gray ; 
 her figure was not striking in outline ; her hands 
 and arms were not moulded at all exceptionally; 
 although she was not awkward in the least, you 
 would never have called her graceful ; in her dress 
 she gave no impression of attempted adornment; 
 and yet, when you looked upon her you somehow 
 felt that the freshness of maidenhood had never 
 been more charmingly embodied in a feminine 
 shape. A little later, while we talked together, I 
 leaned in my interest perhaps a trifle nearer to her 
 face than the etiquette of this hotel " hop " allowed. 
 And as I did so I caught a wafture of the breath 
 
THE YOUNG LADY WITH A MOTHER. 53 
 
 which came from her somewhat large mouth, with 
 its two rows of clear white, even teeth. That little 
 moment made me think of thyme, clover, new-mown 
 grass. It is an absurd thing to record, I know, but 
 I devoutly do not want it to be deemed a coarse 
 thing. And I place it thus in my portraiture of 
 Fanny Williams because I believe it will make her 
 fascination more plain to those who will affirm that 
 a girl who is only to be described in negatives must 
 of necessity have no fascination whatever. 
 
 She spoke with great volubility ; but she was far 
 from being garrulous in a silly way. It struck me 
 that she had made up her mind concerning every- 
 thing she said. There were no halfway measures 
 in her converse. She disliked the " hotel " (I 
 think it was called "The Pavilion" or "The 
 Beach House," or something like that), and roundly 
 asserted her dislike. She was entirely discontented 
 with her present surroundings. She envied the 
 people at Newport. Did I know Newport ? Oh, 
 yes ! she felt sure that I must, for I had the manner 
 of knowing " all about nice people." 
 
 To my amazement, this little unforeseen com- 
 pliment made me alnrost tingle with gratification. 
 She paid me a few more during the evening, with 
 similar results. She somehow made me decide 
 that I had said a number of clever things to her, 
 though, on afterward recalling our conversation, 
 I felt assured that she herself had talked with 
 scarcely a breathing-space. During the next few 
 minutes I learned that she was a graduate of Mrs. 
 
54 SOCIAL SILHOUETTES. 
 
 Laurent's well-known school in Fifty-Eighth Street. 
 She knew Tilly This and Jenny That. Did I know 
 them? Some of them were my cousins, others 
 were friends of my cousins, and still others I had 
 met in their first New York season, of the previous 
 year. 
 
 " Oh, yes ! it was very gay last winter, was it 
 not?" hurried Miss Williams, after permitting 
 from me an allusion to the social gayeties of former 
 months. " I heard a good deal about all that was 
 going on. And, now that I remember, I heard of 
 you. . . . Oh, yes, of course ! Carrie Houston told 
 me that she led the german with you at that 
 great Delmonico ball given by the Ostranders last 
 year." 
 
 "Carrie Houston is also a sort of cousin of 
 mine," I said. I sometimes feel an actual diffi- 
 dence at confessing the immensity of my New 
 York cousinship. 
 
 " Is she ? Oh, yes ! Now that you mention it, 
 I think that she told me so. Carrie had such a 
 lovely time ! I saw her the next day. She told 
 me Well, mamma? " 
 
 That "Well, mamma," on the part of poor 
 Fanny Williams, acted for me as a burst of revela- 
 tion. 
 
 "Mamma" had just approached her daughter 
 by a sort of detour. I did not see the new-comer 
 until she had made her presence quite unavoidable. 
 
 She was a lady of about forty. She did not 
 wear a worsted shawl ; indeed, the dark plainness 
 
THE YOUNG- LADY WITH A MOTHER. 55 
 
 of her garb looked as if even so commonplace an 
 embellishment would have seemed unduly fantas- 
 tic there. She had a face that bore no resem- 
 blance to her daughter's, except in a certain vague 
 expression about the eyes, which made it possible 
 to concede that she might be Fanny's mother. It 
 was the nearest approach to a perfectly square 
 face that I ever recollect seeing; either temple 
 and either jaw just missed describing an actual 
 point or corner. The chin was so unnecessarily 
 long that you wondered whether some enthusiast 
 on the origin of species could not give it a distinct 
 scientific reason for existing. But the whole 
 sallow and high-cheeked visage was withal so 
 melancholy, that it put me in mind of a jaded 
 omnibus horse, which has all sorts of secret 
 grudges against its drivers, its bit, and the exten- 
 sive patronage of its particular " line." 
 
 I soon found that Mrs. Williams was as much 
 dissatisfied and distraite as I had rapidly predi- 
 cated of her. 
 
 "Oh, yes, Mr. Manhattan!" she said to me, 
 after Fanny had made us known to one another, 
 "I dare say you do think the hop is nice. 
 Young folks usually like hops : I did when I was 
 a girl." 
 
 It flashed across me what an abnormal, equine 
 girl the lady would have made. Her voice seemed 
 to complete nay parallel : it was a kind of doleful 
 whinny, but its complaint had no trace of weak- 
 ness; it was querulous without being at all 
 
56 SOCIAL SILHOUETTES. 
 
 pathetic. You at once perceive that it could 
 rebuke no less than lament, that it could scold, 
 exact, threaten, or satirize, all in the same lugubri- 
 ous key. And it was a very nasal voice indeed : 
 it was la voix pleurniclieme to perfection, pealing 
 from a decidedly American organ. 
 
 Mrs. Williams now looked at her daughter, and 
 proceeded: "Fanny, here, thinks it elegant fun 
 to prance and gallivant round this room, sir, and 
 pay no more attention to her poor ma 'n'r if I was 
 in Kamskattica." (I give the lady's pronunciation 
 just as it left I was going to say her nostrils.) 
 " Well, I s'pose it 's half my fault, and half her 
 poor dead pa's. We sent her to a fashnuble 
 school, Maddom Laureng's, where she was taught 
 more French flummery than you can shake a stick 
 at, and made to consider her swell girl friends of 
 more consequence '11 her own flesh and blood." 
 
 I looked at Fanny. I expected to see her 
 bathed in blushes of mortification at this shock- 
 ingly ill-bred speech. But her color had not 
 varied in the least. I thought, however, that her 
 smile, which had notably deepened, hid a posi- 
 tive distress, and that she had made it both 
 deepen. and brighten from this cause. 
 
 "Why, mamma," she said very amiably, "I 
 supposed you were having a pleasant chat with Mrs. 
 Todd. You seemed to be getting on charmingly 
 together." 
 
 " Humph ! " said Mrs. Williams. " I guess you 
 know by this time, Frances, that I think that 
 
THE YOUNG LADY WITH A MOTHER. 57 
 
 woman about the vulgarest piece I 've come across 
 in years. Why, she 's always bragging 'bout her 
 house in town an' her servants. Wat 's she do- 
 ing here at 'leven dollars a week, then, I 'd like to 
 know? She she sets me all on edge, that 
 woman does. An' you w'isked off an' left me 
 with her, 'cause you was asked by that little 
 w'ippersnapper of a w'at-'s-his-name to dance the 
 gallup. But that 's the way it is alivays" con- 
 tinued Mrs. Williams, suddenly addressing herself 
 to me. " I 'm nobody at all. I 'm the dirt under 
 that girl's feet. I don't care if I 'm talkin' before 
 a stranger or not. If she 's mortified, she deserves 
 to be mortified. I did n't want to come to this 
 hole. I wanted to go to Lake Mairpac this sum- 
 mer." ("Mairpac" was presumably "Mahopac.") 
 " But no, Fan thought it was common there. I 've 
 got lots of lady friends there, sir. Yes, Frances, 
 I '11 just tell the gentleman ; I don't care a bit : 
 you can like it or lump it, just as you choose. 
 I 'm tired o' being made a mere stool-pigeon of, 
 for that 's w'at I am made by that girl. I 'm sat 
 upon by her from morning till night. It 's ' Ma, 
 do this,' and ' Ma, don't do that.' She 'II never 
 intrerdooce her mother to a living soul. I 'm to 
 be shoved out o' sight and kep' in the background, 
 always. All I 'm good for is to be alluded to as 
 'mammaah,' or 'deah mammaah,' when she 's 
 with her swell friends. Oh, I don't care, sir, if 
 my blood is up. It 's her blood, if she is ashamed 
 of it. If" 
 
58 SOCIAL SILHOUETTES. 
 
 "I am not ashamed of it," said Fanny Williams, 
 for the first time making any interruption. " You 
 know I am not." 
 
 I have never seen such perfect self-control, in 
 all my dealings either with men or women, as I 
 now saw in this young girl's face and manner. 
 Her smile had wholly gone ; her face had taken a 
 sad and keenly weary look ; I almost imagined 
 there was a gleam of despair in the gaze that she 
 momentarily turned upon my own. But her 
 restraint, her equipoise, her command of every 
 thing like anger, resentment, or even annoyance, 
 was something truly magnificent. I felt myself 
 by a swift intuition in the presence of a brave, 
 splendid little creature. 
 
 She met her mother's spiteful glance with one 
 calm and soft. Then she stretched out her hand 
 and laid it lightly on my arm. 
 
 " Will you come with me somewhere else ? " 
 she faltered. 
 
 I gave her my arm instantly. It was one of the 
 most gallantly protective impulses that I have 
 ever had, and I don't think I am backward in 
 giving help where I believe a good woman needs 
 it. 
 
 We both saw Mrs. Williams recoil a little, while 
 Ave moved away, as if this departure were a 
 crowning insolence from her abominable offspring. 
 But we moved away, nevertheless ; and I suppose 
 that I was responsible for changing our quarters 
 from the hot, ugly little ball-room, a few minutes 
 
THE YOUNG LADY WITH A MOTHER. 59 
 
 later, to a long, low piazza, charming enough now, 
 whatever it may have been by day. 
 
 Some dense honeysuckles clung to the rails and 
 pillars in dusky, scented tangles. A late moon 
 had risen, and lay near the horizon, with its red, 
 broken disk giving it the pathos of some far, 
 strange, ruined world. But its beams were strong 
 enough to make a path of mild splendor on the 
 sleeping Sound, and to show us one or two eerie 
 sails in the lighted offing. Out on the lawn a 
 salty breeze was waving the unseen boughs of the 
 foliage with that tender melody which is perhaps 
 the most spiritual of all nature's many rhythmic 
 voices. 
 
 "I am very sorry that you did not ask me to 
 come away sooner," I said to Fanny Williams, and 
 I felt her hand tremble a little against my arm 
 while I spoke. "I would gladly have gone with 
 
 you." 
 
 She was silent for quite a while, as we paced 
 the dim, void piazza. I stole a look at her drooped 
 face. Presently I saw her lift it ; and then she 
 said, in tones that were more composed than I 
 had expected to hear : 
 
 " It is very good and kind of you, Mr. Manhat- 
 tan, to show so much quiet sympathy with me. . . . 
 Now, pray do not say that you have not shown it, 
 for, if you have not, then I have divined it; and I 
 like to think I have divined it, all the same, even 
 if it is not there. . . . My mother was very angiy 
 to-night : it was one of her moods. She has them 
 
60 SOCIAL SILHOUETTES. 
 
 now and then. I was terribly mortified. She 
 becomes perfectly reckless before people at times, 
 and nearly always when I least expect her to be 
 so. I think these moods have grown upon her 
 since my father died, about four years ago. It is 
 not true that I neglect her. I do everything that 
 I can. Your cousin, Carrie Houston, knows that : 
 I am sure she will tell you if you ask her. I have 
 a number of real, true friends in her set, as I may 
 say. I love the refined pleasure that makes up so 
 much of their life. I should like to be one of 
 them, to have the same harmless happiness which 
 they enjoy. And they are so good about it, too ; 
 they have offered to get me invitations to places ; 
 they have even procured them for me ; they are 
 my warm, devout friends, about seven or eight 
 of them. I could tell you their names, and I am 
 sure you would know them all; but it is of no 
 use. My mother would make my life a misery if 
 I went where she did not. As it is, I have to be 
 almost clandestine in my visits to these girls. 
 They are my ' swell friends,' as you heard her say 
 not long ago. ... I suppose you thought me 
 strangely cold under that last attack. But I have 
 been through so many ; and then " Here 
 Fanny Williams paused, and looked at me with 
 a gaze as gentle as it was noble and patient. 
 "Then, too," she went on, "I must always remem- 
 ber that she is my mother." 
 
 "Good heavens I " I exclaimed indignantly. " I 
 should think you had every reason for not remem- 
 
THE YOUNG- LADY WITH A MOTHER. 61 
 
 bering it. Such a persecution as this is purely 
 monstrous ! " 
 
 She shook her head in eager negative. "Oh, 
 do not think it is always so ! " she answered. " My 
 mother is very pleasant for days. We get along 
 together nicely enough then. She may be a little 
 exacting, you know, but I don't mind that." 
 
 "Indeed ! " I answered quite hotly. "You are 
 a saint to endure what you do. I I have never 
 heard a more vulgar piece of bravado a more 
 scandalous exhibition of bad taste than I wit- 
 nessed this evening on the part of your " 
 
 " Stop ! " broke in Fanny Williams. The moon- 
 light showed me that her eyes were sparkling, 
 and that her face expressed decided anger now, if 
 it had given no trace of any before. 
 
 "You have no right to speak in that way," 
 she went on crisply and sternly enough. " That 
 lady, please recollect, is my mother, and you now 
 address her daughter." 
 
 After what I had seen and heard, this outburst 
 struck me as incomprehensible. But of course I 
 changed my tone to one almost of apology, as I 
 said: 
 
 "True enough, Miss Williams. But you must 
 be sensible of " 
 
 "I am sensible of but one thing," broke in 
 Fanny Williams with a little stamp of her foot as 
 graceful as it was irate. " You must not speak of 
 my mother like that in my presence. None of 
 the girls dare to do it : they know that I would 
 
62 SOCIAL SILHOUETTES. 
 
 not stand it for an instant. . . . Besides "... (and 
 here Fanny's voice quivered, telling me of the 
 coming tears, that soon came in full flood), " being 
 my own mother, how how can I help loving 
 her with all my heart, as as I do love her, and 
 shall love her, no matter what she does, or what 
 she says ? " 
 
 I half turned away. There was something 
 about all this that struck me as more than merely 
 lovely. It was very nearly sublime as well. 
 
 What might such patience, courage, fidelity, con- 
 tinence, and self-respect all have resulted in, if 
 Fanny Williams had been given a wider sphere 
 for their exercise than this sweet, heroic endurance 
 of a torturing, termagant mother ? 
 
THE GENTLEMAN WHO LISTENS. 63 
 
 VI. 
 
 THE GENTLEMAN WHO LISTENS. 
 
 I THINK I could not have been older than nine 
 years when I first heard that Mr. Prescott South- 
 gate was a thoroughly solid man. He used to dine 
 with my parents in those earlier days, at our old 
 family mansion in Washington Square. I would 
 be permitted to come down to dessert and gaze at 
 him with boyish awe across my nibbled banana or 
 my fascinating ice-cream. I used to connect him 
 with all that was prosperous and luxurious, and I 
 suppose that the festal association clung about 
 him forever afterward. Mamma always spoke of 
 him in a hushed tone; and papa, though somewhat 
 given to cynical comments upon every other 
 friend he possessed, would always reserve for 
 "Southgate" a slow approving nod of the head 
 and a satisfied smile, as if in merely mentioning 
 that gentleman's name he was indicating a per- 
 sonality so far removed from all the aspersions of 
 ordinary disparagement that even fervid eulogy 
 could not express his solid excellence. I find my- 
 self, while dipping among these remote memories, 
 still employing that epithet of " solid." And, now 
 that I recall my boyish ideas concerning Mr. Pres- 
 
64 SOCIAL SILHOUETTES. 
 
 cott Southgate, it occurs to me that I connected 
 the term with his personal appearance, and used 
 to compare his massive frame and his big fleshly 
 but not ungainly limbs with those of other guests 
 at our board, in most cases quite disadvantageous- 
 ly to the other guests. He rose in our drawing- 
 rooms like a Jupiter. When he warmed himself 
 at one of our fireplaces, he wholly obscured the 
 glow or the blaze there. But his mildness and 
 geniality were as immense as his person. He was 
 not corpulent then ; but, even if he had been, you 
 would no more have remarked such a change than 
 if they were to put a bay-window in one of the 
 upper stories of the Fifth Avenue Hotel. He 
 had a soft brown beard, and the mildest of gray 
 eyes; and a smile lessened or greatened on his 
 large, serene face, but never quite left it. I think, 
 that, if he had ever been very angry at anybody 
 or anything, that gray eye of his would have pre- 
 served a residuary twinkle, to tell you, like the 
 rainbow in a storm, that it would soon be clear 
 weather again. 
 
 The domestic hearsay of childhood always ex- 
 erts a vast influence. I grew up in a reverential at- 
 titude toward Mr. Prescott Southgate. It never 
 occurred to me that he was not a gentleman of 
 marked mental gifts. It never so far as crept into 
 my intelligence that he was not dowered with all 
 known or possible gifts, of whatever nature. I 
 might, under stress of artful suasion, have been 
 induced to doubt the capability of the sun in 
 
THE GENTLEMAN WtiO LISTENS. 65 
 
 heaven ; but I do not think any subtlety or mo- 
 mentum of argument could have led me to 
 disbelieve in the stanch and over-towering merits 
 of Mr. Southgate. 
 
 And yet all this time I had no definite recollec- 
 tion of his possessing a voice. I was very famil- 
 iar with the pat of his large hand on the crown 
 of my head ; I could shut my eyes and see his 
 rich, ample smile; I was intimately acquainted 
 with his grave, seigniorial nod; I knew past error 
 the drowsy, comfortable creak of his boots. But 
 when it came to recalling his conversation, or even 
 the quality of the tone in which he uttered the 
 most ordinary statement, I should have found my- 
 self at a grievous retrospective loss. 
 
 The inevitable changes took place. I went to 
 Harvard, as I have before recorded ; my poor 
 mother passed away; a dolorous time of mourn- 
 ing ensued, sharply accentuated by that paralytic 
 stroke which levelled my remaining parent; I was 
 a devoted nurse to poor father for many months ; 
 finally the last worldly exit came also for Ms 
 ]oved life ; I was immersed in legal matters con- 
 cerning the settlement of my large lot of prop- 
 erty ; and at length I went abroad, remaining for 
 a good while among scenes and people that 
 wrought their due effect of wholesome change. 
 
 In this way several years passed without my 
 meeting or hearing of Mr. Prescott Southgate. 
 But the old reverence continued dormant with- 
 in my spirit. If I had been called upon, while 
 
66 SOCIAL SILHOUETTES. 
 
 abroad, to instance a pillar of American social 
 worthiness, I should instantly have bethought my- 
 self of Mr. Southgate. 
 
 When I returned to this country, I found myself 
 rather promptly made a member of the Metro- 
 politan Club. The doors of the Metropolitan 
 were not so besieged then as now by yearning as- 
 pirants. I was slipped quite easily into member- 
 ship ; and I recollect, that, on the first evening this 
 honor was enjoyed, I felt a desire to meet and 
 claim acquaintance with my father's old idol. 
 
 Of course he still lived. If he had died, I 
 must have heard about it. I confess to an odd 
 sense of conviction, that, if I had been either in 
 Egypt or at the Cape of Good Hope, I still must 
 have heard about it had Mr. Southgate died. 
 
 To be in the Metropolitan was naturally to re- 
 member him. Youthful experiences inseparably 
 connected him with the Metropolitan. He had 
 always " an engagement at the Metropolitan ; " or 
 he was listening to some opinions of my father 
 respecting the proper government of the Metro- 
 politan ; or he was blandly smiling upon my dear 
 mother while she playfully scolded the Metro- 
 politan for keeping papa out till abnormal hours ; 
 or he was receiving an urgent note from the 
 Metropolitan, where somebody must see him just 
 at the wrong time, before his good old Madeira 
 was thoroughly sipped and his heady post-prandial 
 cigar thoroughly smoked. He had been clad for 
 me with a kind of Metropolitan nimbus, like that of 
 
THE GENTLEMAN WHO LISTENS. 67 
 
 the Virgilian deities. And so, naturally, entering 
 the halls of this long-respected club for the first 
 time, I not only anticipated him as an event, but 
 expected him as a certainty. 
 
 " Oh, he 's somewhere about," said my old Har- 
 vard classmate, Charley Tremont. "He always 
 is." Charley, who dawdles through life as a con- 
 firmed scoffer at nearly everything sacred that it 
 holds, dropped his voice and lowered his cigarette, 
 as if with some instinctively respectful meaning, 
 while he now added : " Magnificent old chap ! 
 Pride of the club, Mark ! Wish we had more like 
 him. He 's been elected a governor four succes- 
 sive times. Fifth time he would n't run : they 
 could n't get him to do it. A little aged now, but 
 still the same fine, solid, old-school trump." 
 
 "Oh, yes yes indeed!" I replied, catching at 
 the word " solid." That word had such a homely, 
 pleasant, recognizable sound ! 
 
 A little later I met Mr. Southgate. Of course 
 I had changed since lie had last seen me. I told 
 him that I mast have done so, while I grasped his 
 big, soft hand. (They said it had made over a 
 million dollars, that hand, in the East India trade, 
 though you would never have supposed so from 
 its unroughened plumpness.) He beamed upon 
 me while I talked with him. He had changed 
 too : he had got, to put it plainly, a palpable 
 stomach, which he carried with a really superb 
 majesty. You had to run your eye downward 
 along his stately person to be quite sure that you 
 
68 SOCIAL SILHOUETTES. 
 
 had made 110 error about his altered anatomy. 
 But there was no doubt concerning his wrinkles, 
 and the airy, frosty gray of his beard. 
 
 I talked to him for a good while. I dealt in 
 early reminiscences. I had a foolish feeling that I 
 wanted him to see I was no longer young no 
 longer even adolescent. Doubtless I was very 
 garrulous, but always in the most courteous and 
 even allegiant way. And meanwhile he listened 
 and also smiled. I forgot that he had merely 
 listened and smiled. It seemed to me that he 
 had made a great many audible responses, besides 
 listening and smiling. He finally pressed my 
 hand in farewell, saying (or did he only smile it ?) 
 something about being called away and seeing me 
 some other time. Yes, I am sure that he must 
 have said it, though on leaving him, and rejoining 
 Charley Tremont, I had no positive impression of 
 his having made any distinct vocal sound what- 
 ever. 
 
 " Glorious old fellow ! " said Charley, as I reseated 
 myself at his side. 
 
 " Oh, glorious ! " I responded. I was thinking 
 a good deal of old times. The dead days were 
 alive again with me, no doubt, and the dear dead 
 faces were peering into my spirit from that black 
 shadow which for so long had clad them. 
 
 A short time after this I had my little difficulty 
 with that club cad and nuisance, Jones Jones. 
 Everybody knows what Jones Jones is. He has a 
 way of dropping into the club wretchedly intoxi- 
 
THE GENTLEMAN WHO LISTENS. 69 
 
 cated at almost any hour, and saying the most 
 rudely familiar things. With his very slim shape, 
 his unnaturally pale face, his high, shrill voice, 
 his silly lisp, his cackling laugh, his violation of 
 all polite usage, he is about as complete a bore as 
 it is possible to conceive. He picked a quarrel 
 with me, on this special occasion, in the most un- 
 provoked way. His rudeness was so flagrant and 
 personal, that I simply rose and told him in a few 
 words, as calm as I could command, my intention 
 of insisting upon an apology. 
 
 I detest scenes; I abhor publicity. But this 
 was a case in which common self-respect seemed 
 to imperatively demand a single determined 
 course. I waited for my apology two days, and it 
 did not arrive. Meanwhile I had made it plain, 
 through spoken message, that an amende of some 
 sort must be given. Duelling in this country is 
 ludicrous, and in all countries it is barbarous. 
 And yet what could I do? Jones Jones had sent 
 me an insolent response, had repeated his offensive 
 words. In point of physical power he was so 
 thoroughly my inferior (I believe the fellow was 
 dying then of the consumption which drink 
 had brought him to, and which ended his life less 
 than a year later), that any hostile assault on my 
 part would have been judged as rank cowardice. 
 
 It was a very difficult and awkward position. 
 My indignation had meanwhile transpired, and 
 gossip boiled and bubbled at the Metropolitan. 
 I had but one course to take, and I took it. I ap- 
 
70 SOCIAL SILHOUETTES. 
 
 pealed to the government of the club hi as dis- 
 creet and unimpassioned a letter as I could write. 
 
 But Jones Jones had two cousins and a brother- 
 in-law on the governing committee. My complaint 
 roused hot dispute and strong partisan feeling. I 
 was distressed and mortified by certain rumors 
 that soon reached my ears. I was summoned 
 before a conclave of governors, and asked ques- 
 tions which hurt my dignity as a man and my 
 sense of right as a wholly blameless plaintiff. 
 Twenty different counsellors urged me to defend 
 myself in twenty different ways. I merely wanted 
 ordinary justice, that supreme boon which man 
 has for centuries so often craved, and so often 
 missed; and, if I should fail to secure it, my 
 resolve was fixed regarding a resignation from the 
 club. 
 
 The whole affair distressed and annoyed me 
 deeply. I slept ill ; I felt myself becoming un- 
 doubtedly irritable ; a cloud of gloom hung over 
 my spirits ; I was that unpleasant member of 
 society, a man with a grievance. I knew myself 
 the victim of capricious report, and was conscious 
 that many unheard tongues were dealing idly and 
 recklessly with my name. The decision of the 
 committee remained obscure. Jones Jones fre- 
 quented the club, with all his old swagger and 
 license. It was at length Charley Tremont who 
 said to me one afternoon : 
 
 " Mark, you 're a new member here, but you 
 have one good, stanch friend. And your friend is 
 
THE GENTLEMAN WHO LISTENS. 71 
 
 a man of great influence. I need hardly tell you 
 that I mean Prescott. Southgate. Why don't 
 you go to him? You should have gone to him 
 before." 
 
 " True," I said. I grasped Charley's hand ; his 
 advice had seemed like the timely plank flung to 
 the man who sinks. And I was really sinking, in 
 a certain way. The delay of the committee's 
 decision had engendered a sort of dreary despair. 
 
 I waited that afternoon for the arrival of Mr. 
 Southgate. As soon as he entered the club, I 
 secured him, so to speak. I held his hand while I 
 looked into his genial, fatherly face, that wakened 
 such tender and indeed holy reminiscences. I felt 
 that I should have gone to him before now in my 
 trouble. We passed toward a lounge together, arid 
 sat there for a long time. I told him everything. 
 He listened with the most irreproachable atten- 
 tion. 
 
 There is not the vestige of a doubt that Mr. 
 Prescott Southgate listened with the most irre- 
 proachable attention. 
 
 And presently I ended my statement, my plea, 
 rny defence. I fancy that I was rather eloquent. 
 I am sure that I had spoken without wayward ire 
 or foolish discomposure. And after speaking I 
 waited Mr. Southgate's answer. 
 
 "I dare say the committee will make you all 
 right," he said. 
 
 That was all. He had nothing more to say. He 
 somehow left me no doubt that he sided with my 
 
72 SOCIAL SILHOUETTES. 
 
 cause. His superb smile, and his almost magnetic 
 cordiality of demeanor, thus assured me. But he 
 had nothing more to say. He had listened. He 
 had listened, I may add, unexceptionably. I do 
 not think it would be possible for any mortal to 
 listen so well. He had revealed just enough grav- 
 ity, just enough suavity, just enough gentle gayety, 
 just enough serious appreciation ; but it had all 
 been revealed through silence. I am totally unable 
 to explain how this sympathetic condition was 
 suggested to me. I am not aware that it is possi- 
 ble for silence to convey it. And yet nothing 
 except silence did convey it on the occasion to 
 which I refer. 
 
 The club righted me a few days later. I was 
 exonerated from all blame, and Jones Jones re- 
 ceived the punishment of a year of suspension for 
 his unprovoked insolence. The poor fellow died, 
 as I have said, during the next year. His death 
 bit into my conscience, somehow, though for no 
 cause. If I had caned him in the public streets, 
 as certain friends had urged me to do, I might 
 have had real food for remorse. 
 
 Meanwhile Mr. Prescott Southgate's treatment 
 had set me diligently thinking. I ascribed many 
 causes to his odd reticence, finally concluding that 
 he had had some cogent reason for remaining non- 
 committal concerning the whole affair. 
 
 I said this one evening to Herbert Winslow. 
 Herbert is a sallow, placid, self-contained man 
 about forty-five years old. He is not popular in 
 
THE GENTLEMAN WHO LISTENS. 73 
 
 the club : he is considered somewhat arrogant and 
 exclusive. The Wall Street clique (and how many 
 cliques there are in the Metropolitan !) particu- 
 larly dislike him ; but he, in turn, particularly 
 dislikes the Wall Street clique. He has a com- 
 fortable inherited fortune ; he is not at all a snob, 
 yet picks and chooses his associates ; he is a bach- 
 elor of the most methodic and unalterable habits ; 
 he reads a good deal, and especially enjoys the 
 reading of the best French books; he is scrupu- 
 lously neat about his dress ; he has the most ad- 
 mirable manners ; and, when he cares to talk, in 
 his easy, mellow, deliberate voice, he can talk with 
 good effect and notable shrewdness. 
 
 " My dear Manhattan," he now said to me, lay- 
 ing one hand for an instant on my arm, "you 
 should nob drift into the general error about 
 Prescott Southgate. You are quite too clever a 
 man for that. You are quite too keen an ob- 
 server too." 
 
 I looked at Winslow surprisedly. " The general 
 error ? " I said. " What do you mean ? " 
 
 Winslow smiled. His hard, lean, impassive face 
 seemed to soften for a moment with much furtive 
 amusement. 
 
 "Why, Southgate," he murmured to me, "is a 
 supreme fool. I don't at all mean an ordinary 
 fool. An ordinary fool could never have had his 
 amazing social success. You went to him with 
 your little story. He listened to it, of course. He 
 is the prinoe of listeners. You had approached 
 
T4 SOCIAL SILHOUETTES. 
 
 him at a point of special strength. He is, par 
 excellence^ the man who listens. He has acquired 
 a truly immense reputation for just that quality. 
 Some men are brilliant in other ways. Southgate 
 is brilliant through his silence. He has the mar- 
 vellous gift of making an amiable monosyllable go 
 further than a hundred earnest sentences from 
 other lips. It has always been just this way with 
 him. His deft employment of silence explains his 
 popularity, his high standing, his universal tribute 
 of respect and admiration. I called him a fool, 
 but remember that I qualified my assertion. He 
 is the most strikingly clever fool I have ever 
 known. He is wholly without ideas, and yet he 
 has contrived to make hundreds of people believe 
 that he teems with ideas. Behind his serenity, his 
 warm pressure of the hand, his twinkle of the eye, 
 his benevolent massiveness, corpulence, stateliness, 
 you will find absolutely nothing. I solemnly be- 
 lieve that he never thinks ; he has the power, how- 
 ever, to make other people think that he thinks. 
 His great social success has always been a great 
 mystery to me. There was never so absurd a 
 fraud as Prescott Southgate, and there was never 
 a fraud that managed to keep so perpetually undis- 
 covered. He did not reply to you the other day, 
 because he had no rejoinder to give you except 
 what he has been giving mankind at large for over 
 sixty years, under all possible circumstances. I 
 mean his silence. He has made more steady and 
 rich capital out of silence as a cloak for mental 
 
THE GENTLEMAN WttO LISTENS. 75 
 
 stupidity than nine-tenths of his race have made 
 out of brains, speech, and opinion." 
 
 A light had burst upon me when Herbert Wins- 
 low ended. I felt as if I had been watching the 
 cool cut and thrust of a surgeon's scalpel. I have 
 never spoken since then to Prescott Southgate ; 
 but I have bowed to him a great many times, 
 and I always try to make my bow deferential and 
 courteous. One cannot but respect certain hum- 
 bugs. Their time-honored repute is a challenge 
 against disesteem. 
 
76 SOCIAL SILHOUETTES 
 
 VIL 
 
 THE LADY WHO GROWS OLD UNGRACEFULLY, 
 
 IT was not hard to separate Mrs. Grot on Nyack 
 from the idea of saying or doing anything awk- 
 ward. She was at all times the pink of high- 
 breeding. Even her little rudenesses and cruelties 
 were done without a touch of vulgarity. I some- 
 times think that she has been the most purely 
 successful woman of society that New York has 
 ever known. Gifted with a neat, acute wit, with 
 a grace, a vivacity, a desinvolture quite irresistible, 
 and with something so nearly approaching absolute 
 beauty that its defects took an actual charm on 
 this account, Lydia Chichester must have been 
 well equipped as a girl to shine in the world of 
 caste and fashion. As a girl, I never knew her : 
 as a woman, I have admired and almost loved her ; 
 and, for two or three years after our acquaintance 
 had become a friendship, I used to marvel at the 
 way in which she contrived to blend the girl and 
 the woman. So subtle, in truth, was this con- 
 junction, that you could not tell where the one 
 ended and the other began. If it were a question 
 of chaperonage, of quiet self-assertion, of superin- 
 tendence over some charitable ladies' committee, 
 
THE LADY WHO GROWS OLD UNGRACEFULLY. 77 
 
 Mrs. Croton Nyack was very apt to be both called 
 and chosen. If it were a question of dancing the 
 german, of being enthroned on a drag, of dining, 
 riding, driving, or lawn -tennis playing, the result 
 was similar. She enjoyed all the privileges and 
 dignities of matronhood and all the gallant favors 
 and compliments which maidenhood so prizes. 
 
 Her figure was slender, her movements were 
 harmony itself, her hands were white and beauti- 
 ful. She made all her steps and gestures briskly : 
 her small, trim-shod foot seemed to strike the floor 
 with a delicate decision and assertion. She spoke 
 with speed, too ; for her ideas flowed rapidly, and 
 their expression was an unconscious and often an 
 extremely winning process. She had no affecta- 
 tions, no minauderies. Her alert eyelid, sheathing 
 a bright gray eye, could not have languished or 
 fluttered. There was something crisp and clean- 
 .cut about her personality. I have known days in 
 early autumn that reminded me of her, with their 
 sharp yet tender outlines of foliage, their limpid 
 skies, their swift, fresh breezes. In all things she 
 was the reverse of inactive, languid, or dubious. 
 Zest, vigor, energy, had a secure home in her 
 capable mind, her supple, agile frame; and yet 
 the needed repose of demeanor and action was 
 never unpleasantly absent. I have never seen 
 such vivacity, such pliability, wedded to so secure 
 an effect of self-possession and easy elegance. If 
 I have sketched Mrs. Nyack with anything like 
 clearness, it will be granted that she must have 
 
78 SOCIAL SILHOUETTES. 
 
 promptly conveyed to an observer the impression 
 of distinct if not extreme youth. 
 
 And yet when I first met her she had passed her 
 thirty-ninth year. You might easily have taken 
 her for five and twenty. I don't know what she 
 did to her wrinkles: I am sure that she did not 
 paint or powder them ; I am doubtful, indeed, if 
 the most minute ones had yet begun to trouble 
 her. She had married Croton Nyack (who was 
 by inheritance twice or thrice a millionnaire) at 
 the age of about one and twenty. A single child 
 had been born of their union, a girl, named 
 Natalie. Natalie was a pretty, soft-eyed creature, 
 with a somewhat timid manner, not a tithe of her 
 mother's brains, and almost the image of her lazy, 
 blond, gentlemanly papa. Lydia Nyack had not 
 married happily. If she had loved her husband 
 on her wedding-day, she was wholly indifferent to 
 him now. They lived about as much apart from 
 one another as husband and wife not legally sepa- 
 rated can live. Croton had by no means the 
 reputation of conjugal fidelity. Fifty scandals 
 had been set afloat concerning him, some of them 
 doubtless as arrant falsehoods as gossip and rumor 
 know how to coin. He had his yachts, his stables 
 of blooded horses, his coaching interests, his racing 
 interests, his hundred and one pleasurable dis- 
 tractions. Mrs. Nyack never showed the slightest 
 concern in his goings and comings. When they 
 appeared publicly together, they seemed to be on 
 the most amicable terms. But she never made 
 
THE LADY WHO GROWS OLD UNGRACEFULLY. 79 
 
 the least reference to her matrimonial life. She 
 herself had always been the soul of decorum. 
 Her friendships with men had never even lapsed 
 into flirtations, however mild. She had locked 
 the key on all sentiment of this sort, and bid it an 
 eternal farewell. I think that was why she stood 
 so unassailably high with her countless friends. 
 Her powers of entertainment were almost princely, 
 and she was forever lavishing them upon society. 
 She had two or three superb country homes, and 
 one noble mansion on Fifth Avenue, where service 
 was a positively ideal matter, and the fine things 
 that can be done with great wealth aptly and 
 deftly managed were shown in a most brilliant yet 
 unglaring way. If the past had dealt her wounds, 
 she gave no sign of them now. Her husband's 
 follies had been accepted with philosophy : it was 
 hard to imagine her not accepting any reverse 
 with philosophy and good sense. 
 
 During the winter of Natalie's entrance into 
 society, I was a good deal at Mrs. Nyack's house. 
 She scarcely ever dined at home without three or 
 four guests. I had always liked Natalie Nyack, 
 and had always enjoyed her timid little expressions 
 of nervousness and distrust regarding the great 
 balls at which she must soon appear. 
 
 " Natalie is not a bit like you," I said to her 
 mother one evening. 
 
 Mrs. Nyack shrugged her shoulders. " You are 
 quite right. She is her father's own daughter. 
 But I can't think why she should so dread to go 
 
80 SOCIAL SILHOUETTES. 
 
 into society. She will be very well lancee. I 
 shall make her coming-out ball a very pretty 
 affair." 
 
 She made it a truly magnificent affair. The 
 spacious drawing-rooms were decked with the 
 costliest flowers, wherever such adornment was 
 possible. Natalie's timidity visibly lessened as 
 the evening wore on. I saw that she had begun 
 to drink and relish the vin capiteux of the flattery 
 and attention which met her on every side. 
 
 But her mother was by no means in good 
 spirits. Mrs. Nyack had scarcely referred more 
 than once or twice to the present ball, and I now 
 perceived that either the festivity itself, or some 
 event closely related to it, had affected her with 
 an unwonted gloom. A dulling and depressing 
 spell seemed to have fallen upon her old volatile 
 gayety. She was still perfect as a hostess; she 
 still bore herself with much of the former gentle, 
 enticing cordiality. Perhaps my more familiar 
 and friendly eyes detected the change where it es- 
 caped many others. Just before the german began 
 I found a chance of saying to her : 
 
 "Natalie has quite conquered her bashfulness ; 
 and she looks bewilderingly pretty, in her simple 
 white dress, with those big pearls. Have you no- 
 ticed?" 
 
 " Oh, yes ! " replied Mrs. Nyack. She had done 
 me the honor of asking me to lead the cotillon 
 that evening with her daughter. " Shall you 
 begin presently?" she went on. 
 
THE LAD Y WHO GRO WS OLD UNGRA CEFULL Y. 81 
 
 "The german?" I said. "Yes. It is almost 
 one o'clock By the way, with whom are you 
 dancing ? " 
 
 She gave a little toss of her graceful head. 
 " Oh ! I make a surrender to-night," she answered. 
 
 " A surrender ? " I repeated. 
 
 " Certainly. In favor of my daughter Natalie." 
 She looked at me for a moment with the most 
 unaccustomed seriousness. " The idea of mother 
 and daughter dancing together in the same ger- 
 man ! It is absurd. It is even ridiculous." 
 
 "I don't at all agree with you," I said warmly. 
 "Is not your husband going to dance ? " 
 
 She gave another laugh, so chill and odd that I 
 could hardly believe it had issued from her lips 
 " Croton ? Oh ! of course he will dance. He will 
 dance, I suppose, until he is quite bald and tooth- 
 less. In a certain way, Croton will always be a 
 sort of overgrown boy. But with me well, 
 with me it is wholly different." 
 
 "I don't at all see that it is different!" I ex- 
 claimed. "You have never thought before of 
 giving up dancing. You know very well that you 
 will be immensely missed : you are usually up in 
 every figure What on earth, pray, do you in- 
 tend to do all through the coming winter ? You 
 must go about with Natalie to places. You can't 
 surely mean that you will suddenly settle down 
 like this?" 
 
 "Yes, I shall settle down," she replied. She 
 was not smiling at all now, as she tapped my arm 
 
82 SOCIAL SILHOUETTES. 
 
 with her fan. " You have just hit upon the right 
 phrase. I shall settle down." Immediately after 
 thus speaking, she glided away from me. 
 
 We met constantly during the next few weeks 
 at a number of different entertainments. Mrs. 
 Nyack never danced at any of them. It struck 
 me that she was by no means enjoying herself. 
 She had always before appeared to enjoy herself 
 with such an extreme heartiness ! You seldom 
 heard her laugh sound above the music ; you did 
 not see the bright flash of her smile half so often 
 as before. I had never thought of her age pre- 
 viously, but I somehow thought of it now. Had 
 it suddenly made itself manifest in her counte- 
 nance ? I was not sure ; and yet, with the cessation 
 of her former buoyancy, new lines, or the sugges- 
 tions of lines, seemed to have stolen out on cheek, 
 brow, and temple with a vaguely marring effect. 
 
 Natalie, meanwhile, had lost every trace of her 
 maidenly shyness. As a matter of course, the 
 only child of Croton Nyack had become a belle. 
 But Natalie deserved to be a belle. She had no 
 wit, no power to be adroit, ruse, captivating; 
 but she thoroughly liked all the pomp and cere- 
 mony of fashion, and had frank, girlish charms, 
 which, when her devotees remembered them as 
 stoutly backed by her father's wealth, were in no 
 danger of being undervalued. 
 
 " I see that Natalie tolerates that shocking little 
 Ten Broeck boy," I said to Mrs. Nyack one after- 
 noon at a tea. 
 
THE LADY WHO GROWS OLD UNGRACEFULLY. 83 
 
 "Tolerates him! "was the unexpected answer. 
 " I suspect that she likes him very much indeed." 
 
 "Really?" I murmured. "I should never have 
 imagined it. Of course he is sole heir to the mas- 
 sive Ten Broeck fortune. But lie " 
 
 "Pray, say no more," broke in Mrs. Nyack with 
 quick interruption. 
 
 I had intended to add that Bond Ten Broeck was 
 a silly babbler, with white eyelashes and the brain 
 of a kitten ; but I did not add this, for a sudden 
 surmise kept me silent. 
 
 One evening not long afterward, I dined at 
 Mrs. Nyack's house. There were several other 
 guests. Natalie sat low-lidded and pre-occupied 
 all through dinner. I had no chance of address- 
 ing her until afterward, in the drawing-room, when 
 the men came in to join the ladies. 
 
 "You are somehow not your bright self this 
 evening," I said. We occupied a rather remote 
 lounge together. If I had spoken much more 
 loudly than I did speak, I still would not have 
 been heard by any one save her whom I ad- 
 dressed. 
 
 Natalie lifted her soft eyes, and let them dwell 
 very disconsolately upon mine. Her lip quivered 
 for an instant. I perceived, somehow, that she had 
 the impulse of making me a confidence, and then 
 that she restrained this impulse, as though it were 
 not to be sensibly entertained. 
 
 " I have n't been feeling just right," she said. 
 
 I leaned a little closer to Natalie then. " Is 
 
84 SOCIAL SILHOUETTES. 
 
 it ill health ? " I questioned, " or is it some 
 trouble?" 
 
 She started, and laid her hand on my arm. " It 
 it is some trouble," she faltered. Then she 
 turned quickly for an instant toward where her 
 mother was seated. "I I am very unhappy," 
 she gently continued. 
 
 " You 've no reason to be," I ventured, perhaps 
 a good deal too callously and tentatively. 
 
 " No reason ! " echoed Natalie. She looked at 
 me with great earnestness for a very short space 
 of time. I don't know what she saw in my face, 
 I fancy that she saw considerable sympathy there. 
 I had begun to do more than suspect how matters 
 stood. 
 
 " Are you going to the Westerveldts' party to- 
 night?" I asked. 
 
 " No," said Natalie, shaking her head. " Mamma 
 does not wish me to go." She suddenly regarded 
 me with a feverish intentness. " Don't tell mamma 
 I said that," she proceeded. " But I 'm afraid you 
 will, for you and mamma are such good friends." 
 
 " I promise you that I will say nothing," came my 
 answer. " Has your mother forbidden you to go ? " 
 
 " Oh, not at all ! " said Natalie, furtively bright- 
 ening. She lowered her voice to a whisper now. 
 "But mamma has given reasons. The Wester- 
 veldts are not specially desirable people. It is a 
 very small affair, at which only a few unmarried 
 girls will be present. I I was asked (so she says) 
 only because I am Miss Nyack. But I understand 
 
THE LADY WHO GROWS OLD UNGRACEFULLY. 85 
 
 it all. How can I help understanding it all ? I 
 I have seen it for weeks for months. I saw it 
 when there was first the least talk of my going 
 out into society. It it has been a stone round 
 my neck. It it was this that made me, so timid 
 when I was a debutante. It has always been dis- 
 tressing me ever since." 
 
 These last sentences were so excitedly uttered 
 that I could scarcely believe them delivered by the 
 placid, obedient little girl whom I had thus far 
 always known. I mused for a short while before 
 I spoke again. I am afraid that I had a latent 
 motive in my demur. 
 
 " Do you mean," I said very quietly, " that your 
 mother is not your good friend? " 
 
 Natalie curled her lip in a covert yet bitter 
 way. "I mean," she declared vehemently under 
 her breath, " that mamma is my enemy. Yes, I 
 know it is horrible for me to say so. I have lain 
 awake at night, thinking just how horrible it is. 
 But I can't help saying it now, for it is true. I 
 don't mean that mamma hates me : it is something 
 else that she hates; and I represent that 'some- 
 thing else.' I show her that she is growing old ; 
 and growing old is horrible to her. She shrinks 
 from it as if it were a pest. I dare say she can't 
 help it. She clings so to her youth to her re- 
 pute for being young ! It is agony for her to be 
 placed among the matrons, the dowagers. I should 
 never have been her child. She should never have 
 had a child. But I grew up, I became of age, and 
 
86 SOCIAL SILHOUETTES. 
 
 she had to bring me out. And now she has but 
 one aim, one desire, one intention." 
 
 "What intention?" I asked. I was shocked -as 
 I put my question, for I knew that the poor girl 
 suffered greatly. 
 
 "Don't you know?" Natalie answered with as 
 bitter a little roll of laughter as I have ever heard 
 leave feminine lips. " Mamma wants to marry me. 
 I I dorft wish to give you the idea that she hates 
 me; bub she hates me to be as I am, to show 
 her monde that she must take a back seat, as the 
 phrase goes, to appear in the motherly role. She 
 was alway charming to me till I grew up ; she is 
 always charming to everybody. But, since I have 
 begun to share her reign with her, all is altered. 
 I make her suffer by my very presence. She wishes 
 me away. She cannot endure me. And now" 
 (here Natalie's voice broke miserably), "now she 
 wants me to to marry Bond" 
 
 " Good-evening, Miss Natalie," said a voice quite 
 near us. 
 
 Bond Ten Broeck, with his uneasy little figure, 
 his white eyelashes, his preposterously self-satisfied 
 manner, had just put out a lank, gloved hand to- 
 ward my companion. 
 
 " Carn't you spare me even a look ? " chattered 
 Bond Ten Broeck. " Of cawse, I know you 're 
 talking with Mr. Manhattan, and I suppose that 
 means you 're enjoying yourself desperately ; but 
 still" 
 
 I did not hear any more of Mr. Ten Broeck's con.- 
 
THE LADY WHO GROWS OLD UNGRACEFULLY. 87 
 
 ventiorial jargon. I rose and excused myself; and 
 I felt immeasurably sorry for poor little Natalie as 
 I did so. 
 
 Less than three months later I went to her wed- 
 ding. Ten Broeck was the bridegroom. Every 
 body said it was such an admirable match. Natalie 
 made a very pale bride ; but she was loaded with 
 costly laces, and she glittered with noble diamonds. 
 
 Her mother was in high spirits at the wedding. 
 I happened to find myself quite near to her just 
 before the bride and groom departed. She knew 
 nothing of her poor little daughter's pathetic inter- 
 view with myself weeks ago. She was regally- 
 dressed, in violet velvet, with a blaze of turquoise- 
 stones about her slender throat. She looked like a 
 queen or a crown-princess. 
 
 " I feel quite young," she said to me, laughing. 
 " I am no longer a dowager, you know. I have 
 taken a new lease of youth. After this I shall be 
 able to grow old at my leisure." 
 
 I looked her full in the eyes. What I said I 
 could not help saying, and I don't know that I 
 have ever really regretted saying it. 
 
 " Grow old slowly or as quickly as you please," I 
 murmured, " but hereafter take care that you grow 
 old more gracefully than you have done thus far.'* 
 
 She stared at me haughtily for an instant. I 
 saw the color rush to her face. She never forgave 
 me. 
 
 Since then Mrs. Croton Nyack and I have been 
 on the most distant terms of acquaintanceship. 
 
88 SOCIAL SILHOUETTES. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 A MILLIONAIRE MARTYR. 
 
 I FIRST met Mr. Amasa G. Pancoast at Sharon 
 about four years ago, and he at once deeply inter- 
 ested me. I became acquainted with his wife, his 
 daughter, and his son before I met the gentleman 
 himself. They did not interest me at all. They 
 belonged each one to a class with which Ameri- 
 can association had thus far rather drearily famil- 
 iarized me. 
 
 Mrs. Pancoast was certainly fifty, almost obese 
 in her extreme stoutness, and perpetually fanning 
 herself. She had small, plump hands that were 
 never tired, morning, noon, or night, of swaying a 
 fan before her large, plump face. She was afflicted 
 with perspiration; and little drops of it would 
 trickle downward along the full curve of her florid 
 cheek, even when a brisk breeze was blowing and 
 when everybody else felt comparatively cool. I 
 suspected from the first that Mrs. Pancoast's trou- 
 ble came from tight lacing, and I have never had 
 reason to reverse my decision. She always ex- 
 hibited her fleshy person in close-clinging robes of 
 great apparent price. She did not so much im- 
 press me as being vulgar : she seemed, rather, to 
 
A MILLIONNAIRE MARTYR. 89 
 
 have once been excessively vulgar and to have 
 made a reformatory change. She produced upon 
 me the effect of always holding herself in. My 
 allusion has no physical importance, for she always, 
 with her glistening and costly bodices, gave one 
 the idea of being held in, as regarded an almost 
 corpulent person. But in speech, in action, in 
 gesture, I detected an incessant underhand effort 
 at self-control. When she addressed me with a 
 sentence of ordinary civility, I always had an 
 idea that she was grammatically steering among 
 shoals and quicksands. I can't just tell why this 
 feeling assailed me, for her syntax never, to my 
 knowledge, contained any gross fault. She was, 
 in truth, a wonderfully clever woman. She had 
 been a nobody in past years, without a doubt. 
 There was a story circulated that she had been a 
 factory-girl before her marriage with Amasa G. 
 Pancoast; but, if this be true, she was certainly 
 a very efficient and capable factory-girl. She had 
 evidently risen from some grade much lower than 
 that which she now occupied. The traces of her 
 quick progress were somehow manifest in every- 
 thing that she did or said. She was the most posi- 
 tive and salient type of an American woman. 
 She was common without showing a trace of 
 actual commonness. She did not say "you 
 was" for "you were," and yet one constantly 
 fancied that she was on the verge of doing so. 
 She had used her prosperity with an enormous 
 vigor and cleverness. She had rapidly incrust- 
 
90 SOCIAL SILHOUETTES. 
 
 ed herself with a film of spurious and factitious 
 culture. 
 
 I thought her execrable. I am not a bit of a 
 dilettante^ and I usually keep my offended shud- 
 ders for things which justly invoke them. But 
 Mrs. Pancoast, with her loud toilets, with her 
 oscillating fan, with her evident struggle of flesh 
 to escape its stylish bounds, with her enigmatical 
 arrangement of tresses that were, perhaps, three 
 good parts not her own, affected me as wholly un- 
 pleasant. 
 
 Her daughter, Maud, pleased me still less. The 
 usual people whom you meet at Sharon thought 
 Mrs. Pancoast altogether undesirable ; but I am 
 afraid that they thought Miss Maud Pancoast an 
 actual horror. This young lady resembled her 
 mother ; she was not yet stout, but a little close 
 scrutiny would have convinced you that she must 
 soon be very stout indeed. Like her mother, Miss 
 Maud dressed with remarkable richness and splen- 
 dor. She had rather square shoulders, and she 
 kept them always heightened, as if, in some mili- 
 tary manner, she were constantly on a sort of 
 parade. She was indeed constantly on a sort of 
 dress-parade. When she wanted to use her cam- 
 bric handkerchief (or perhaps I should say when 
 she did not want to use it), she flirted it forth from 
 her pocket with a most ostentatious crook of the 
 elbow. She had large, hard, cold black eyes, that 
 she was forever rolling. I have never seen eyes 
 "used" more pertinaciously. She could not 
 
A MILLIONNAIRE MARTYR. 91 
 
 glance at a hotel waiter without some suggestion 
 of a desire to enmesh and snare him. She was 
 what you call bad style, from the toe of her ab- 
 surdly-heeled French boot to the daintiest curl of 
 her bandolined hair, plastered close against her 
 low, broad forehead. You felt, as you looked at 
 her, that she considered herself immensely four- 
 ree in fashionable habits and occupations. She 
 had never been visited, this pranksome and restive 
 Miss Maud, with the vaguest premonition that she 
 was atrociously out of taste. She looked upon 
 her mother as a great lady, a thorough-paced pa- 
 trician. This was by no means a case where the 
 American daughter had shot ahead of and over- 
 towered the American mother. Nothing could be 
 more filially decorous than the attitude of Maud 
 toward her mother. I am convinced that she 
 thought her a superb and brilliant personage ; it 
 was like a hollyhock envying a sunflower. They 
 would occasionally meet on the piazza of the hotel 
 in their rustling, crackling, befurbelowed robes; 
 and then Maud would always take one of her 
 mother's hands in both her own, and say with her 
 cold, black eyes, if she did not say it with her lips, 
 " You are perfect. There is nobody like you. I 
 would give anything to be so stylish and showy 
 and truly grand." Sometimes she would pick, at 
 these meetings, some little shred or speck from 
 her mother's dress, and with an air of fond solici- 
 tude, as though a being so superfine should not 
 have the least flaw upon her raiment. 
 
92 SOCIAL SILHOUETTES. 
 
 The son and brother, Augustus (or Gussie) 
 Pancoast, was about two years, I should say, the 
 junior of Maud. I do not recall ever having seen 
 him twice in the same trousers. He had a thin, 
 pale face, with a tiny waxed mustache, and he 
 used to look at you over the stiff, high band of 
 his collar as though he knew some clever way of 
 popping his head down below it, like a startled 
 turtle's. You could not closely regard him with- 
 out perceiving that he was enormously wise in a 
 worldly sense. He was incessantly smoking cigar- 
 ettes, which I am sure increased his sickly pallor ; 
 but through their smoke gleamed his little black, 
 sharp eyes with an irony of acuteness. I some- 
 times had an idea that he hid a vast Mephistophe- 
 lian knowledge of everything evil. For a youth 
 of eighteen, his life was certainly a most unhealthy 
 one. He haunted the bar-room of the hotel a good 
 deal, and looked at me with incredulity when I 
 told him that I was not in the habit of taking a 
 morning "cocktail." Mr. Gussie took morning, 
 noon, and night "cocktails," I am nearly sure, 
 and a quantity of intermediate ones besides. He 
 always donned the most festal-looking shoes; 
 they were either topped with drab cloth and 
 dotted with pearl buttons, or they were of some 
 tawny undressed leather blent with canvas, or 
 they were marvels of brilliancy and decorative 
 stitching. It seemed to me, also, that if he had a 
 fresh pair of trousers for every day, he had a fresh 
 necktie for every hour. He appeared to be on 
 
A MILLIONNAIRE MARTYR. 93 
 
 intimate terms with all the functionaries of the 
 hotel. I suspected that he flung his fees and 
 perquisites ostentatiously broadcast, and so won 
 their almost cringing courtesies. His walk was a 
 loitering swagger, and he rarely got through a sen- 
 tence without some touch of pointed slang. 
 
 One more figure completed this rather unique 
 family group. It was Mr. Amasa G. Pancoast 
 himself, the husband and father. If the other 
 members of his race challenged sarcasm and even 
 contempt, Mr. Pancoast was very far from doing 
 so ; but he seemed to challenge the sarcasm and 
 contempt of his wife and children, and to provoke 
 it as well. 
 
 Their disrespect toward him was undisguised 
 and flagrant. There appeared to be a relentless 
 and continued conspiracy in the matter of brow- 
 beating him. I learned certain facts concerning 
 his life a few weeks later, which it will be best to 
 record here and now. He had acquired a very 
 large fortune years ago as a ready-made clothier, 
 which he had afterward doubled and quadrupled 
 by discreet investments in real estate. He must 
 have been considerably past sixty. His clean- 
 shorn face, with its arched and rather shrivelled 
 nose, its wide, pink, benevolent lips, its kindly, 
 dim eyes, its pale, sparse growth of locks at either 
 temple, and its general expression of patient gen- 
 tleness, I found peculiarly agreeable. He would 
 sit for hours on one special portion of the piazza, 
 silent, ruminative, and yet giving you the im- 
 
94 SOCIAL SILHOUETTES. 
 
 pression that he would be glad to talk, if you 
 chose to engage him in conversation. 
 
 I chose one morning thus to engage him. I 
 acted partly from curiosity and partly from pity. 
 He seemed so aloof from all the young blood, the 
 pleasure-seeking, the insouciance, of the crowded 
 hotel ! And, moreover, his own kith and kin at 
 all times had so elbowed him aside, so discounte- 
 nanced and repulsed him ! 
 
 I found him a kind of sweetly loquacious old 
 gentleman. I discovered that he liked very much 
 to talk, after his own rambling, grammarless, yet 
 wholly human and genuine fashion. 
 
 " My eyes ain't very smart," he presently told 
 me, " and, ef I read the papers much, I have to 
 pay for it. I used allus to read three or four 
 o' the papers of a day. But I don't miss 'em, 
 somehow. I ain't interested in stocks no more, 
 and I 've settled most o' my money-dealin's in a 
 solid, s'cure way. I jest come up here t' please 
 my folks. I dessay you know one or two of 'em, 
 eh?" 
 
 "I think that I know them all," I answered. 
 
 Mr. Pancoast put his head on one side while he 
 now gazed at me. There was plaintiveness and 
 yet pride in his manner and gaze. " I guess you 
 ain't found a lady in this country more stylish '11 
 my wife is," he said. " Don't you think she 's 
 pretty stylish ? Come, now." 
 
 "I think she's very stylish indeed," I answered 
 propitiatingly, though not quite untruthfully. 
 
A MILLIONNAIRE MARTYR. 95 
 
 "And Maud?" Mr. Pancoast proceeded. 
 " She 's a reg'lar picture, ain't she ? " 
 
 " Oh ! of course." 
 
 " And then that son o' mine, Guss. What 
 that young rascal don't know ain't worth for- 
 gettin'." 
 
 " Your son certainly seems to have had a very 
 great experience," I conceded. 
 
 Mr. Pancoast gave a little suggestive nod. 
 " Don't you make any mistake," he said. He now 
 rubbed both his wrinkled hands together with a 
 gleeful restlessness. He also winked at me, and I 
 soon perceived that he had a great capacity for 
 winking. At the same time there was a decided 
 undercurrent of melancholy in his demeanor. 
 " They don't allus treat me right, any of 'em. I 
 ain't come up to their ellergant habits, you see. 
 I 'in 'fraid they kinder impose on me. Yes, sir, 
 I 'm a good deal 'fraid they do. But I don't kick 
 much. I guess I don't kick 't all. I s'pose I 
 begun wrong with the children, Maud and 
 Gussie. I got married a little later 'n I ought, 
 p'r'aps, and I felt so proud of 'em when I 'd had 
 'em, that they kinder got the upper hand o' me 
 'fore I knew it. I ain't the same 's I used to be 
 neither. I bin sick, sir, for three or four years. 
 My wife don't b'lieve it, nor the children either ; 
 but my my head ain't what it was, and so I 
 can't show much spunk. A sick man most allus 
 can't ; you know how that is. But I 'm proud of 
 'em all. I'm genooine proud of 'em. They all 
 
96 SOCIAL SILHOUETTES. 
 
 cut a dash. I watch 'ein, and I can see that. It 's 
 as plain as the nose on your face." 
 
 A moment later Mrs. Pancoast joined her hus- 
 band and myself. The former relapsed into meek 
 silence as soon as she appeared. She had evi- 
 dently heard the recent words of her husband 
 from some unsuspected ambush. 
 
 " Arnasa," she said, " it 's time you took your 
 nap." 
 
 " Oh, yes ! " exclaimed Gussie Pancoast, who 
 strutted and lounged up to us almost immediately. 
 "You had better go and take your nap, dad. 
 This air makes you sleepy. The doctor says you 
 ought to get all the rest you can." 
 
 Mr. Gussie Pancoast and his mother now each 
 took one of the old gentleman's arms, assisted him 
 to rise, and coolly led him away. 
 
 Just as they were doing so, Miss Maud appeared 
 at my side. She gave a little high and shrill 
 laugh as she fixed her black eyes upon me. 
 
 " You must n't mind what pa says," the young 
 lady now declared to me. "Pa's a little queer." 
 And Maud significantly touched her forehead, 
 where the bandolined curls were. 
 
 As Mr. Pancoast was disappearing with his wife 
 and son, I noticed that he walked uncertainly, in- 
 securely, in one leg. But just as he was passing 
 into the house he turned and looked at Maud and 
 myself, where we stood together. His face ex- 
 pressed great kindliness. 
 
 "I have not seen that your father is 'queer/ in 
 
A MILLIONAIRE MARTYR. 97 
 
 tlie way you evidently mean," I said to Maud, and 
 110 doubt I spoke rather scornfully. " But I know 
 what I would do, if I were he. I wouldn't be 
 taken into the house like that. I would n't do any- 
 thing against my will." 
 
 "Who says it's against his will?" exclaimed 
 Maud with not a little heat. 
 
 "/say so," was my response. 
 
 Maud gave a toss of the head. Then she meas- 
 ured me, with hostility, from crown to sole. Her 
 voice was now sullenly defiant. 
 
 " I guess we know how to take care of him better 
 than you do," she affirmed gloomily and doggedly. 
 
 I smiled. " No doubt you do," I said. " Or, 
 rather, no doubt you ought to know. But I think 
 a good doctor might know better than either of us." 
 
 " Oh, pshaw ! " declared Maud. " Don't tell us 
 about doctors! We 've tried lots of doctors for pa. 
 He is n't half so sick as he looks. He '11 drop off 
 some day, of course. He 's had one stroke, and 
 he 's bound to have another. We 're as kind to 
 him as we know how." Here Maud drew herself 
 up haughtily. " Upon my word," she continued, 
 " I do believe that ma knows how to manage her 
 own husband, and Gussie and I know how to man- 
 age our own father ! " Maud looked very black, 
 but I was not at all intimidated. 
 
 " Your father needs medical attendance," I said ? 
 as politely as I could frame the words. " There is 
 a very skilful doctor here in the hotel, but I have 
 not ever seen him speak to Mr. Pancoast." 
 
98 SOCIAL SILHOUETTES. 
 
 Maud frowned. " That *s our business ! " she 
 retorted, sweeping away from me with excessive 
 disdain. 
 
 I thought over the Pancoasts that evening, 
 while I smoked a cigar at my window, before 
 going to bed. 
 
 " They want him to die," I told myself with a 
 shudder. " It 's horrible, but it 's true. He 's 
 worth several millions, and though he does not 
 hug them closely, though he lets that flaring wife 
 flare with them, that pretentious daughter pretend 
 with them, that dissipated son dissipate with them, 
 he still guards them from actual possession by a 
 sort of proprietary instinct which none of these 
 three harpies can destroy. He is ill, and they 
 know it, and they would be glad if death ended 
 his illness and unearthed the will which leaves 
 each one of them independently rich. It is n't 
 murder oh, no ! of course it is not ! Skilled 
 physicians have prolonged lives for years after 
 they have been maimed and hurt just as his life 
 has been. But the three Pancoasts do not con- 
 cern themselves with skilled physicians, or with 
 unskilled. They watch and wait. They have 
 never exchanged a word together of what they 
 mean and what they want. But they watch and 
 wait. It is horrible, but it is true ! " 
 
 In the following autumn Mr. Amasa G. Pancoast 
 died somewhat suddenly. His three bereaved rel- 
 atives went abroad very soon after the funeral. 
 
A MILLIONNAIRE MARTYR. 99 
 
 They had all been social failures here. But I 
 heard last winter that Miss Maud Pancoast was 
 about to marry the second son of the Earl of 
 Sillery, the Honorable Edward Froth. 
 
 I bitterly wondered what her father would have 
 said about this marriage, if he had still been alive. 
 And yet I could not help concluding that he 
 would have added, in his sweetly gentle way, one 
 more arrow to the pessimist's quiverful of those he 
 is always so glad to use against the mockery and 
 sin and shame of human nature, by amiably mur- 
 muring: 
 
 " I 'm proud of 'em all. I 'm genooine proud of 
 'em. They all cut a dash. I watch 'em, and I can 
 see that. It 's as plain as the nose on your face." 
 
100 SOCIAL SILHOUETTES. 
 
 IX. 
 
 A NINETEENTH CENTURY TITANIA. 
 
 I DO not think there is a more unpopular man 
 in the Metropolitan Club than Horace Dilloway. 
 And yet this fact has always been an enigma to 
 me. I know a number of men there who deserve 
 the dislike of their fellows far more than he. True, 
 Horace is saliently objectionable. He has a per- 
 fectly round face, guiltless of the least hairy 
 appendage, and usually inflamed by constant pota- 
 tions in a very florid way. His body is obese and 
 ungainly. His trousers always look as if his fat 
 limbs were too large for them, and sag loosely at 
 the knees, leaving his boots unduly exposed. If he 
 rises from a chair, he has to pull them down ; other- 
 wise there would be danger of their exposing his 
 thick ankles. He . has little pink, flabby excres- 
 cences on the knuckles of his small, pudgy hands. 
 His stomach describes so large and positive a curve 
 that when he is erect it seems as if all the rest of 
 his body were in an attitude of support, no doubt 
 existing for the observer as to what it is support- 
 ing. He is very communicative, very loquacious, 
 very gregarious. No club member is exempt from 
 him. He has not the slightest concern about asso- 
 
A NINETEENTH CENTURY TlTANIA. 101 
 
 elating with any particular set. He knows all sets 
 intimately, and is equally disapproved by all. The 
 most austere governor is liable to be buttonholed 
 by him ; the most retiring and unsocial man is in 
 daily danger of his company. You may barricade 
 yourself behind a copy of the " Tribune," anxious to 
 read it, and feeling in a mood which even the pos- 
 sible society of your twin-brother would not please ; 
 or you may have the inclination for companionship 
 which would make you chat with the waiter who 
 pours out your soda and brandy. It is all one with 
 Horace Dilloway. He is inevitable as the three 
 fatal Greek sisters. You never know when he may 
 not ensconce himself at your side. That you are 
 pleased to see him, he magnificently takes for 
 granted. He does not solicit your civility: he 
 demands it. There is something royal and imperial 
 about his intrusiveness. 
 
 I fell to almost liking him on this account. His 
 unconsciousness of being a dreadful bore pre- 
 vented him from boring me. He seemed to me an 
 exquisite study. The cool broadsides that he lev- 
 elled against all my outworks of reserve made me 
 smile inwardly at my own disarray. You could no 
 more discountenance or suppress him than if he 
 had been a fog or a rainy afternoon. 
 
 He seemed wofully unlettered, though there had 
 been excellent reason for an opposite result. His 
 father, a man of fortune, had sent him to college, 
 and he had afterward travelled abroad. He had 
 married two or three years later. I knew that his 
 
102 SOCIAL SILHOUETTES. 
 
 wife had been one of the Van Wagenens, and that 
 she was already the mother of several children. 
 But I had never met her. She went out very little 
 into society. If I thought of her at all, it was with 
 a thrill of pity. Of course, being a Van Wagenen, 
 she had married Horace Dilloway solely because 
 of his money. What else could it possibly have 
 been? Everybody knew how her father, gay, 
 spendthrift Louis Van Wagenen (I can see his 
 jaunty little pointed white mustache now, and 
 his gold eyeglass, and his perennial rosebud), had 
 died, leaving almost nothing but debts. What girl, 
 so placed, could have refused such an offer as 
 Horace's ? 
 
 But it was not surprising that she rarely went 
 out. I found myself pitying her more and more 
 as I became better acquainted with Horace. I 
 made a few inquiries among people as to what she 
 was like. Was she pretty ? Had she elegance and 
 style? Could it be possible that she possessed 
 brains and culture ? But no one could answer my 
 questions. I happened each time, I suppose, to 
 hit upon the wrong person. After a while I began 
 to feel myself the prey of a morbid, curious, 
 haunting fancy. This fancy concerned the un- 
 known and compassionated Mrs. Horace Dilloway. 
 I wondered whether she did not need advice, en- 
 couragement, support. It was no common calamity 
 for a woman of refinement to be linked in lifelong 
 bondage with such a distressing creature as Horace 
 Dilloway. And I had known her father so well, 
 
A NINETEENTH CENTURY TITANIA. 103 
 
 here in these very walls; had laughed at his 
 quaint, worldly-wise sayings; had giggled (I 
 shame to record) over some of the naughty French 
 stories which old Louis told so inimitably below 
 his pointed white mustache ! (And I used some- 
 times to marvel, by the way, that it should not 
 have turned any other hue than that beautiful 
 chaste white.) 
 
 I felt certain that Horace's young wife was en- 
 during martyrdom. As a return for all the keen 
 social enjoyment that her father had given me, did 
 I not owe his daughter some sort of friendly and 
 helpful office ? 
 
 The words "my wife" were not seldom on 
 Horace's lips. But for a long time I refrained 
 from asking him the least question concerning 
 Mrs. Dilloway. How could he speak of her with 
 proper respect, when his daily existence was one 
 continued scorn of her claims to it? I dreaded 
 the shock of being called upon to infer from what 
 he might tell me that young Mrs. Dilloway was 
 simply trampled into the earth. At least three 
 times a week Horace would leave the club in a 
 cab long after midnight, and with a mind whose 
 condition even the 'most charitable critic must 
 have pronounced cloudy. What torture, on these 
 occasions, must his poor spouse be experiencing ! 
 Or was she indifferent to all his wretched irregu- 
 larities ? Far better, I decided, that she should be 
 so ; and yet how improbable, since she was the 
 mother of his children, and no doubt a woman 
 
104 SOCIAL SILHOUETTES. 
 
 sensitive under the insult of such vulgar neglect 
 and disdain ! At length, one afternoon, when he 
 had joined me in the large smoking-room of the 
 club, I mentioned the fact of Mrs. Dilloway's rare 
 appearances in society. " She does not suffer from 
 ill health, I hope," were my concluding words. 
 
 Horace threw back his head and gave an amused 
 chuckle I " Health ! " he exclaimed. " O Lord I 
 she 's never sick a bit. She 's as strong as a four- 
 year-old. She don't look it, but she is." Here he 
 seemed to ruminate for a moment, if any really 
 meditative mood can truthfully be chronicled con- 
 cerning him. Then he burst into his coarse 
 guffaw of a laugh. " Oh ! she 's a whole team, 
 Isabel is," he proceeded. " She beats me all 
 holler. I tell her so. I ain't much on books : I 
 s'pose you know that, Manhattan, old boy. But 
 she ! why, there ain't a book that comes out, I 
 guess, that my wife don't read. And talk about 
 'em after she 's read 'em ! Why, I 've heard her 
 argue about Henry W. Emerson and Ralph Waldo 
 Longfellow with friends o' mine that knew what 
 they were a-talkin' of, don't you understand? 
 well) as I guess pretty few ladies in America 
 could dream o' doin'." 
 
 " Indeed ! " I murmured. 
 
 "And this man," I thought, " was graduated not 
 very long ago from Columbia College. What a 
 sarcastic comment upon the refining and scholarly 
 influences of our republican universities ! " 
 
 " Oh, yes ! " continued Horace Dilloway. " Isa- 
 
A NINETEENTH CENTURY TITANIA. 105 
 
 bel 's a reg'lar stunner at all that kind o' thing." 
 Here he paused, and suddenly put his roseate, 
 moony face very much on one side. Then as sud- 
 denly he drew forth a big watch bearing his mon- 
 ogram in diamonds, opened it, and regarded it. 
 " I say, old boy, come round and dine with us to- 
 night. Got any other engagement? " 
 
 "No," I said; "but I have not yet dressed for 
 dinner. I thought of dining a little late this even- 
 ing, as I went to a large lunch at Delmonico's this 
 afternoon, which has played havoc with my appe- 
 tite. You know, my quarters are just in the next 
 street, and" 
 
 Horace here clapped my knee with one of his 
 pink, puffy hands. " Oh, never mind about a 
 dress-coat ! " he interrupted. " Come around. It 's 
 all right. I never dress for dinner. She won't 
 mind. It 's nearly dinner-time now. Let 's just 
 jump into a cab." 
 
 "We did. Horace lived in a handsome basement 
 house in Twenty-Eighth Street. A spruce butler 
 opened the door for us. We presently entered a 
 tasteful little reception-room, where Mrs. Dilloway 
 waited. 
 
 " This is my wife," said Horace in his bluff, al- 
 most brutal way. "Isabel, you've heard me talk 
 about Mr. Manhattan. Well, here he is. He 's 
 come to eat some dinner with us. I hope we 've 
 got something decent ; I 'm devlish hungry ; I had 
 a cocktail or two this afternoon, and it makes me 
 feel kind o' peckish. Well, now, Manhattan, 
 
106 SOCIAL SILHOUETTES. 
 
 you washed your hands at the club, and I did n't. 
 I '11 just go up stairs and wash 'em, and then I '11 
 join you in the dinin'-room. By the way, Iz, is 
 dinner ready?" 
 
 "Yes, Horry," said Mrs. Dilloway. " Dinner is 
 served." 
 
 The voice with which this brief reply was given 
 could not well have been more musical, and the 
 lady who delivered it seemed to me a most exqui- 
 site type of feminine beauty. I at once detected 
 her resemblance to her dead father. She had his 
 straight patrician nose, his delicate lips, his finely 
 moulded temples. She was quite blond, and 
 wore her glossy tresses banded in plaits about her 
 graceful, symmetrical head. She had an enchant- 
 ing smile ; her large, soft blue eyes were full of in- 
 telligence ; her figure had true Greek curves in its 
 pliant slenderness. Her dress was of some black 
 lace-like fabric, and she had a knot of golden 
 flowers at her breast. Her long, supple, aristo- 
 cratic hands were cased in gloves of a dark hue, 
 that reached high up her arm, whose perfect con- 
 tour the flowing sleeve left apparent. I do not 
 think it hyperbole to call her angelic. And this 
 was Horace Dillo way's wife ! And I had just 
 heard her address him by the endearing name of 
 "Horry." 
 
 We had a little conversation together before 
 going into the dining-room. I was positively dazed 
 by what I heard her say. It was almost exactly 
 of this meaning, if I lose the precise phrase : 
 
A NINETEENTH CENTURY TITANIA. 107 
 
 " Yes, Mr. Manhattan, I have heard my husband 
 speak of you. Dear Horry tells me about nearly 
 all his club friends. I am sure that you make it 
 very pleasant for him, there at the Metropolitan. 
 He enjoys it so ! He tells me what charming 
 times he has." 
 
 " And you, Mrs. Dilloway ? " I then ventured. 
 " Have you as charming times as he ? " 
 
 She smiled radiantly for an instant. She 
 looked like a lovely picture by Greuze as she did 
 so. "Oh, I manage to amuse myself," she an- 
 swered with a sweet, demure confidence. "I 
 don't mind when Horry is away, because I am sure 
 that he is having a pleasant time. And then I 
 have my books I am a great reader. My books 
 and the care of my dear children, these occupy 
 me quite thoroughly whenever my husband is 
 away." 
 
 " Horace told me you were fond of books," I 
 now said. 
 
 "Immensely," returned Mrs. Dilloway. She 
 drooped her soft eyes for a moment, and then 
 lifted them, liquid and gleaming. " I have been 
 so interested lately," she gently exclaimed in that 
 voice of hers which was so exquisite for its deli- 
 cious modulation and cadence, "by a work that 
 you may not yet have seen ! It is an attempted 
 refutation of Herbert Spencer's 'Philosophy.'' 
 She here named the book and its author. " The 
 view taken," she went on, " is entirely from the 
 standpoint of the German philosophers. Now, I 
 
108 SOCIAL SILHOUETTES. 
 
 am intensely averse to the German philosophers. I 
 feel that the Baconian inductive theory is the only 
 stable and secure one. I read German with a 
 good deal of ease, and I can never bring myself to 
 repose the least faith in Kant, Hegel, or Fichte. 
 They are all such shadowy personages. Bacon, to 
 my thinking, refutes them all. But this work, 
 while it deals very fairly with the Baconian theory, 
 still " 
 
 "Well! Both o' you here yet! Why ain't 
 dinner served? Iz, had n't you better ring and 
 see?" 
 
 This interruption was made by Horace, who 
 now abruptly appeared. A little later we all 
 three passed into the dining-room, where a dinner 
 of excellent quality was served us, with every 
 desirable nicety of attendance. Mrs. Dilloway 
 looked like a young queen and a very pure and 
 lovely one as she sat there at the head of her 
 husband's board, with her curve of slim white 
 throat and her classic profile gleaming so fair and 
 calm above her black-lace draperies. I should 
 be almost afraid to speculate upon what Horace 
 looked like, seated opposite this fragile and ador- 
 able creature. His " cocktail or two," so candidly 
 admitted not long ago, had encrimsoned his spa- 
 cious and circular face. Seen just above an epergne 
 full of loose flowers and fern-sprays, the effect was 
 peculiar : it made me think of a sunset in the 
 tropics. 
 
 "Well, Manhattan, I s'pose you and my wife 
 
A NINETEENTH CENTURY TITANIA. 109 
 
 have been havin' a reg'lar booky talk, eh ? I 
 guess I must polish up my lit'rature if I 'm going 
 to have readin' chaps like you come round to din- 
 ner. Before I married you, Iz, I used to read 
 nearly every novel that came out. Lemme see 
 there was one fellow that just took the cake 
 with me. George Eliot yes, that was the one. 
 Didn't he write 4 The Woman in White,' and ' Foul 
 Play'?" 
 
 Mrs. Dilloway immediately began, in her placid 
 voice, to set Horace right regarding these questions 
 of authorship. She did so without a sign of an- 
 noyance or embarrassment. She seemed totally 
 unconscious that he was ridiculous or grotesque. 
 His illiterate manner, which really sprang less 
 from ignorance than from a certain distinctly 
 American recklessness of speech and deportment, 
 did not appear to occasion her a qualm. Now and 
 then her sweet eyes rested on his inflamed face, 
 which fresh draughts of claret had not rendered 
 by any means paler, and I thought there was 
 something more than mere fondness in her gaze. 
 
 " For trey 's the big thing with you, Iz, ain't it ? " 
 presently broke forth Horace. (He pronounced 
 the word "poetry" as nearly like what I have 
 written as possible.) "Look here, Manhattan, my 
 wife can string you off about half what the famous 
 poets have written, from Tennyson to Byron 
 Oh, lemme see Tennyson came before Byron, 
 did n't he?" 
 
 "Yes, Horry, considerably before,'* said Mrs. 
 
110 SOCIAL SILHOUETTES. 
 
 Dilloway with a light, suave, careless laugh. 
 "Are you fond of Tennyson, Mr. Manhattan?" 
 she continued, exclusively addressing myself. 
 
 " Excessively fond," I answered. 
 
 " Right, sir, every time ! " declared Horace, while 
 he devoured an olive. " Tennyson beats 'em all, 
 don't he ? I can't ever read his ' Hiawatha ' with- 
 out I cry. It 's a fact. I think it 's the most 
 elegant poem I ever read." 
 
 Mrs. Dilloway again corrected her husband 
 not at all as though he had made an absurd blun- 
 der, but with the quiet aplomb of one who points 
 an ordinary error. " I am glad that you like 
 Tennyson," she afterward said, addressing myself. 
 " He is to me very great. His ' In Memoriam ' 
 always affects me like the sea. It seems to break 
 on countless shores of thought ; it washes untold 
 regions of speculation and philosophy. I disagree 
 with its conclusion, which is orthodox; I should 
 prefer an agnostic ending. Should not you, Mr. 
 Manhattan ? " 
 
 I almost stammered as I answered. I am not 
 by any means sure just what conclusion to "In 
 Memoriam " I told Mrs. Dilloway that I should 
 have preferred. I was lost in bewilderment, 
 amazement. I had been unprepared for her in 
 every way; I was now unprepared to hear her 
 speak of Tennyson. There seemed such an enor- 
 mous gulf between Tennyson and Horace Dillo- 
 way I 
 
 I suppose that I must have said a few words 
 
A NINETEENTH CENTURY TITANIA. Ill 
 
 about Browning. People are very apt to do so 
 when they are at a loss for something to respond, 
 and as confused as I undoubtedly was at present. 
 
 " Browning ! " exclaimed Mrs. Dilloway. " Do 
 you really mean that you put him above Tenny- 
 son? I can hardly believe that anyone should 
 rank him higher. He is to me a poet who has 
 flung away nearly all chances of permanent 
 future greatness. He has, it is true, done extraor- 
 dinary things. But the surest literary preserva- 
 tive is style. Browning, in my opinion, has no 
 style. He wilfully wraps himself in obscurity. 
 No great poet has ever done that. He is, I think, 
 surrounded by an adulating English clique who 
 will lose their fervor of esteem as soon as he dies. 
 He is not a true artist. Only the true artists live. 
 Slipshod technique, careless rhyme, contempt for 
 the understanding of one's readers, may create, if 
 properly set before the public, a clientele, an 
 adorning coterie. Browning deserves no immor- 
 tality not because he has not the genius to 
 secure one, but because he has served his genius 
 foolishly. He has done that unfortunate thing for 
 a great man ; he has preferred to make himself a 
 fashion. I grow sad when I think of this man's 
 wasted ability. He might have been supreme. 
 He might have been" 
 
 Just then we were interrupted by a sonorous 
 snore. Horace had fallen into a profound sleep. 
 His head hung on one side. There was no doubt 
 about his somnolence. 
 
112 SOCIAL SILHOUETTES. 
 
 Mrs. Dilloway rose. " Poor Horry ! " she mur- 
 mured. " He is so tired ! " 
 
 I sat astounded. I saw her go up to her hus- 
 baud, and pass one hand over his coarse, dark hair. 
 Horace awakened, straightened himself, and 
 mumbled something. 
 
 Mrs. Dilloway looked at me. " Poor, dear Horry 
 is very tired," she said. A moment afterward she 
 stooped and kissed his forehead. 
 
 They were an immense contrast as I watched 
 them side by side. It was delicacy and vulgarity 
 brought into close nearness ; it was intellect, edu- 
 cation, enlightenment, standing at the elbow of 
 stupidity, idle loquacity, self-assertive fatuity. 
 
 And yet this woman loved this man. She was 
 happy with him. There could not be a doubt that 
 she was happy with him. This lily loved this 
 weed of the mire. It was all one of nature's odd 
 arrangements. I saw it in the way her hand 
 smoothed his bristly and unpoetic locks. I saw it 
 in her exquisite smile, which a man of twenty 
 times finer calibre than Horace Dilloway's might 
 have been proud to win. 
 
 That dinner remained indestructibly memorable 
 with me. He and she were the most ill-mated 
 couple under the sun. Some mad fantasy had 
 gained rule over Mrs. Dilloway. In time she 
 would wake up to a sense of her own dreadful mis- 
 take. She was still very young. Yes, in time she 
 would wake up. Thus I then believed. 
 
 About six months later I heard that Horace's 
 
A NINETEENTH CENTURY TITANIA. 113 
 
 wife had borne him another child. I remembered 
 Bottom and Titania. Must there not ultimately, 
 I asked myself, be a revival, an alteration ? But 
 although I patiently waited, neither came. Mrs. 
 Dilloway remained stanch and loyal to her lord. 
 She loved him, and that expressed it all. The 
 magic juice had been squeezed into her eyes. 
 Yes, she was Titania, he Bottom. It was, in its 
 way, one of those incredible arrangements, a per- 
 fect marriage. All my pity, all my prognostica- 
 tions, had been thrown away. She had her 
 opinions, her views, her ideals. He went to the 
 club and drank untold whiskey: she analyzed 
 the relative genius of Tennyson or of Browning. 
 He tippled, lounged, bored you, talked of nothing : 
 she staid at home, and read Herbert Spencer. He 
 was utterly unworthy of her: she found him 
 wholly delightful. She was vestal in her fidelity : 
 he was daringly disloyal in his hourly deeds. 
 Nothing sure or safe can be postulated of human 
 nature. I began to feel very certain, a few months 
 after that almost epical dinner, that marriages 
 often have a motive and a meaning, here on earth, 
 which the shrewdest of us might spend vast useless 
 effort in trying to fathom. Titania, as we all 
 know, wakes up, in the play, and declares: 
 " Me tli ought I was enamoured of an ass." 
 But as yet I have not had the slightest reason to 
 believe that my nineteenth century Titania has 
 shown the least sign of disenchantment. 
 
114 SOCIAL SILHOUETTES. 
 
 X. 
 
 A TYPICAL NEW YOKK MAN. 
 
 IT is possible wholly to disapprove of a person, 
 and yet stoutly to like him. I should say that 
 this antithesis just described my feelings toward 
 Mr. Johnston Gillespie. Johnston G-illespie, what 
 an ostentatious kind of strut the name has ! How 
 it seems to issue from the lips that pronounce it 
 as some haughty turkey-gobbler might leave the 
 aperture of some fence ! and how much personal- 
 ity seems to dwell behind it, whether for good or 
 evil! 
 
 "Well, in fancy at least, a human figure dwells 
 behind it, of somewhat medium height and a good 
 deal of embonpoint, especially in the region of the 
 waist. Mr. Gillespie has a round face, with a sort 
 of sanguine glaze on either cheek, which I am sure 
 would not be there if his taste for cold water were 
 stronger than it is. He has honest blue eyes, 
 which I have seen a little bloodshot on certain 
 mornings, and a good, straight, manly nose. But 
 his mustache is the crowning personal glory of 
 Mr. Johnston Gillespie. It is of an almost bril- 
 liantly yellow tint, and its hairs are so wiry in 
 their coarseness that you can clearly distinguish 
 
A TYPICAL NEW YORK MAN. 115 
 
 each separate one. It is a mustache, too, of sur- 
 prising fidelity to the countenance which it adorns. 
 Nothing seems to disarray it or discompose it. 
 When wiped by the silken kerchief with which 
 its possessor usually wipes it, either pear-shaped 
 division will at once resume its place, almost in the 
 elastic and precise way of an unbent whalebone. 
 Mr. Gillespie has an extremely small foot, of which 
 he is very proud. I suspect him of a good deal of 
 foppery, after a certain kind, and I think it proba- 
 ble that his beaming and dapper boots have cost 
 him some cogent pangs. His hands are chubby, 
 like his person ; and he wears several rings, one of 
 which is a diamond very conspicuously set, and of 
 great value, for Mr. Johnston Gillespie is exceed- 
 ingly rich. He always looks, somehow, whenever 
 I meet him, as if he had just put on a " new suit " 
 for the first time. He puts on a good many new 
 suits in the course of a year, I have not a doubt ; 
 bat there is a difference between the man and his 
 clothes which makes you observe his clothes, very 
 often, before you notice him, in a way that no sub- 
 tlety of description could adequately explain. I 
 am sure that, if he had a speck on the flawless 
 broadcloth which overspreads his spheroidal 
 stomach, one would espy it with instantaneous 
 speed; and when he stands before you, clad as 
 smartly as possible, you seem to see the scissors of 
 some adroit tailor ploughing and snipping its way 
 as the chalked outlines and hieroglyphs of the 
 latest fashion have indicated. His hat is always 
 
11.6 SOCIAL SILHOUETTES. 
 
 of the glossiest, and he has a multiplicity of over- 
 coats. But no matter what he wears, it is perpet- 
 ually the same witli him : he looks endimanclie 
 and freshly varnished. He wears nothing grace- 
 fully, and always as if he not only thought you 
 were watching how it became him, but as if he 
 rather desired that you should so watch. 
 
 I should not think of Mr. Gillespie as being an 
 American, but rather as being a New-Yorker. I 
 don't know whether he ever reflects upon the ques- 
 tion of living in the largest city in the United 
 States ; but it appears singularly appropriate that 
 he should live there, for in his daily life and 
 dealings he always insists upon " the best of every- 
 thing." I am certain that his bootmaker under- 
 goes agonies in accommodating those slender feet 
 to the sanctioned sheathings of patent leather or 
 calfskin. It is my belief that his tailor has borne 
 from him vituperation and bullying; for he can 
 bully his inferiors as badly as the worst cad will 
 sometimes do, though his heart is large and his 
 nature intrinsically generous. His charities, too, 
 are profuse though careless, and suffer from his 
 great essential fault, ostentation. 
 
 I knew him at college. He was a senior when 
 I was a freshman, and we were both members of 
 the same select and caste-conferring secret society. 
 He always made me feel that I was two good classes 
 below him. Afterward, of course, all this changed, 
 and we have met on equal terms. And yet it is 
 hard to say that any one ever meets Johnston Gil- 
 
A TYPICAL NEW YORK MAN. 117 
 
 lespie on equal terms. It is an absolute fact that 
 you must permit him to patronize you in order to 
 show you what an excellent fellow he can be. I 
 have known men to curl their lips in disdain at 
 him behind his back, but I never knew any of 
 these to refuse him a smile when he shook their 
 hands. 
 
 His career is peculiar. Two or three years after 
 leaving college he lived fast, drank hard, and 
 seriously impaired his health. Then, recognizing 
 the folly of all this, he genuinely reformed and 
 spent a year in travelling abroad. I saw him soon 
 after his return. He invited me to dine at Del- 
 monico's. There was no one except ourselves, but 
 the dinner was sumptuous, a sheer waste, in fact, 
 of viands and wines. 
 
 "America's good enough for me," he declared 
 during our repast. " If you leave out the picture- 
 galleries and the churches, I don't see that they 've 
 got anything better than we 've got. All Europe 's 
 kind of a big graveyard, anyway. They 're always 
 showing you what somebody 's done who 's been 
 dead a thousand or two years. Look here, Mark, 
 I don't like this Burgundy, do you? " 
 
 " I think it 's good Clos de Vougeot, Johnsty," I 
 said, "and as soft as velvet." 
 
 He smiled wisely under his copious yellow mus- 
 tache. " Not for a cent," he said, his year abroad 
 no more having taken from him his ineradicable 
 native slang than I believe twenty such years 
 could have done. " No, my boy, it 's turned" He 
 
118 SOCIAL SILHOUETTES. 
 
 snapped his fingers loudly to attract the attention 
 of a waiter. The waiter not hearing this sound 
 (though a number of adjacent diners heard it), he 
 pounded with mild violence upon the table, using 
 the handle of his fork. A waiter rushed to him. 
 
 " You ain't my waiter." 
 
 " No, monsieur." 
 
 " Well, then, get my waiter. I want him. Un- 
 derstand?" 
 
 "Yes, monsieur." 
 
 When "my waiter" came, the Burgundy was 
 anathematized. The waiter presumed to defend 
 its quality, and was met with a volley of remarks 
 like these: 
 
 "Look here, don't you talk such rot to me ! I 
 know good wine when I drink it, and bad too! 
 What do you take me for, anyhow ? When I say 
 a wine 's turned, it 's your business tc listen, an' 
 not shoot your mouth off. Bring another bottle, 
 and take this away quick as you can ! If you 
 ain't careful, my fine fellow, I '11 complain of you 
 to Mr. Delmonico." 
 
 The new wine was brought, and the old removed. 
 While this substitution was in process, Gillespie 
 made several growling comments on the filet, which 
 he pronounced over-done. But when the waiter 
 brought the bill, he discovered that the denounced 
 Burgundy had not been charged upon it. He 
 insisted that the bill should be changed, and paid 
 for the wine which he had recently reviled. He 
 also gave the waiter a much larger fee than usual. 
 
A TYPICAL NEW YORK MAN. 119 
 
 He lias an immense lurking respect for " swell 
 society," as lie calls it, which the position of his 
 dead parents, apart from his great inherited wealth, 
 would easily have enabled him to enter. But he 
 never "goes out." I think he inwardly feels that 
 the restrictions and requirements of fashionable 
 life would yoke and cramp his liberty-loving spirit 
 much too severely. 
 
 " I envy you, Mark," he once said to me in his 
 nasal yet cordial voice. " You can put on a swal- 
 low-tail and go round, night after night, here, there, 
 everywhere, among all the stuck-up girls and half- 
 witted fops. By ! I don't see how you do it, 
 
 old boy ! And they tell me you lead their germans 
 for 'em too. I don't dance never could; but 
 if I was to tackle a german just one night, I 'd 
 have 'bout ten fights on my hands for the next 
 day. When I boss things, I boss 'em. I would n't 
 have these young simpletons taking extra skips 
 whenever my head was turned." 
 
 "Nor do I, Johnsty," I said. "I rule them by 
 kindness ; but I rule them." 
 
 "So you do," he exclaimed, putting a hand on 
 my shoulder. " I 've heard you do, and I believe 
 it. But I can't rule that way. The kindness is 
 all in me, I guess you know that; but the devil is 
 in showing it at the right time. . . . Say ! got any- 
 thing to do to-morrow evening? . . . Well, then, 
 come and dine with me in my own rooms at the 
 Bolingbroke. Party of six all good fellows. 
 You'll make the seventh lucky number." 
 
120 SOCIAL SILHOUETTES. 
 
 It is forever thus with him. We scarcely ever 
 meet that he has not some festal proposition of the 
 sort to make. He lavishes hospitality upon his 
 friends; he has indeed given thousands away in 
 the form of nominal loans to men for whom pecu- 
 niary assistance was a positive injury. But, alas ! I 
 recollect that this very dinner at the Bolingbroke 
 turned out a most unfortunate affair. A musical 
 gentleman, who occupied adjoining apartments, 
 chanced to hold on the same evening a private 
 concert, whose programme consisted of German 
 compositions which our host esteemed an ear- 
 splitting outrage. He was very fond of Italian 
 music; he thought "Trovatore" the most enchant- 
 ing opera in all the world. 
 
 As the fumes of his own excellent champagne 
 went to his head, he determined upon having the 
 concert silenced. Yes, he would. We counselled 
 him eloquently to the contrary, but without avail. 
 It was a damned shame : it spoiled his dinner, and 
 he was going to see whether he 'd have to put up 
 with it. Mr. X., the proprietor of the hotel, 
 would stand by him : they 'd been friends for ten 
 years ; and X. knew he paid his way, and was n't 
 going to be bulldozed. Nothing would do but we 
 must have Mr. X. up. Our host left his seat, 
 and strutted about with an absurd pomposity, 
 while we all awkwardly sipped our wines, and 
 some of us (including myself) thought the blend- 
 ing of violin, trombone, and piano, in the next 
 room, a rare treat. 
 
A TYPICAL NEW YORK MAN. 121 
 
 Mr. X. appeared. He was very courteous, 
 but justifiably firm. He refused to have the con- 
 cert interfered with in the slightest manner. 
 Gillespie stormed and fumed, and spoke about his 
 rights as a guest in the hotel. The proprietor em- 
 ployed a low voice, too low for us to hear much 
 of his defence, and no doubt answered by pro- 
 testing against the rights of his other guests being 
 interfered with. Gillespie finally sat down in a 
 white heat, and our dinner was a complete failure. 
 Shortly afterward I learned that he had changed 
 his quarters. 
 
 He is very fond of using the word " wrinkle " as 
 expressive of preferment in a hundred matters of 
 purchase and general patronage. He likes to tell 
 you that he " knows the ropes " at certain cafe's or 
 restaurants, that the employees there save him a 
 private bottle, that they reserve for him a special 
 dish never on the carte du jour, that a particular 
 brand of claret or species of liqueur is kept solely 
 for the tickling of his own and his friends' palates. 
 He takes keen pleasure in receiving a note from 
 his tailor that certain goods have just arrived from 
 "the other side " which no one shall see till he has 
 personally examined them ; or from his haber- 
 dasher, stating that the last invention in collars or 
 neckties at present awaits his critical survey. Of 
 course, he is very often cheated by these politic 
 tradespeople, and I dare say he knows it; but 
 the gratification to his curious vanity remains 
 quite the same. If he had been a New York poli- 
 
122 SOCIAL SILHOUETTES. 
 
 tician, he would have been a terribly corrupt one, 
 he is so fond of partiality and favoritism. 
 
 There are some men whom, in the usual mean- 
 ing of that word, it is impossible to educate, and 
 Gillespie is one of them. The instruction of his 
 professors at Columbia has all fallen completely 
 flat upon him. It is a mystery how he ever trav- 
 ersed the full collegiate curriculum. He has un- 
 doubted mental capacity, but it is entirely of the 
 practical, commercial, arithmetical sort. He has 
 no sense of the charms of literature, and apparently 
 no respect for them. He said to me one evening, 
 in a moment of confidence : " I don't see what the 
 deuce people find in poetry to admire. I never 
 can understand a word of it, unless it's something 
 devilish simple, like ' Sweet By and By,' or funny, 
 like the things in ' Pinafore.' Of course, I except 
 Shakespeare; he's poetry, but then he lays over 
 all the rest." 
 
 (It is extraordinary how often we hear persons 
 who have just Gillespie's feeling toward poetry 
 make precisely this same point with regard to 
 Shakespeare. The truth is, that they are simply 
 ashamed of including in their category of dislikes 
 a poet whom all the civilized world now agrees in 
 worshipping. There are hundreds, thousands of 
 people, loud to-day in Shakespeare's praise whenever 
 his name is mentioned, who never glance into his 
 works, who have not read half his plays, and who 
 rather avoid, than otherwise, seeing them acted. 
 But the scorpion-whip of public opinion must 
 
A TYPICAL NEW YORK MAN. 123 
 
 not be too daringly braved. We are not permitted 
 to pass adverse judgments with impunity nowa- 
 days on the subject of Shakespeare. The fashion 
 is profound and universal homage and may it 
 last for many centuries! But I sometimes ask 
 myself what these prudent panegyrists would have 
 had to say about the great William, if they had 
 lived when old gossipy Pepys wrote so sneeringly 
 of him, or even when Oliver Goldsmith, in " The 
 Vicar of Wakefield," referred to him almost with 
 contempt.) 
 
 But Gillespie is extremely fond of the drama. 
 He witnesses nearly all the plays that appear, 
 good, bad, or indifferent. I do not believe he has 
 read a book through for three years ; but I doubt 
 if he has missed, during that time, a single play of 
 ordinary importance. He is an excellent critic, 
 from a popular stand-point : he usually takes pains 
 to prophesy that a play will or will not " draw," 
 and he is usually right. But occasionally he for- 
 gets, on leaving a theatre, to mildly express the 
 disgust which the performance has inspired. Per- 
 haps it would be putting the matter with more 
 truth to state that he forgets the theatre is not his 
 theatre, and the play produced by him and en- 
 acted by his own performers. On one such occa- 
 sion, when he and I were leaving a certain very 
 well known theatre together, he spoke with high- 
 voiced displeasure. 
 
 " The worst rot I 've ever seen ! First act pala- 
 ver, second act bosh, and third milk and water." 
 
124 SOCIAL SILHOUETTES. 
 
 " Johnsty," I whispered to him, "please recollect 
 that there may be friends of the manager all round 
 you." 
 
 "I 'm a friend of the manager myself," he re- 
 torted, as if my admonition were the most unmer- 
 ited thing in the world. " I 've known him for an 
 age." 
 
 " Well, then, there may be friends of the per- 
 formers, who " 
 
 " I 'm as good a friend of nearly every man or 
 woman you saw to-night as any they 've got. And 
 I guess some of 'em ain't got much reason to for- 
 get it." (This was one of the few allusions I ever 
 heard him make to his own liberality.) 
 
 " Oh ! very well," I rejoined, " you know per- 
 fectly why this sort of thing is n't the right form 
 in leaving a theatre." 
 
 But, no: he could not understand it at least, 
 not in his own case. For some time afterward his 
 demeanor toward me was what he himself would 
 have called "huffy." I think that from any one 
 but a friend he would have resented my very 
 gentle rebuke as an impertinence. His own con- 
 duct, if observed in another, would have seemed 
 unwarrantable. Invested with the filigree of his 
 own egotism, he could perceive nothing wrong 
 about it. I do not mean that he merely did not : 
 I mean literally that he could not. He was an 
 exceptional theatre-goer, just as he was an excep- 
 tional diner, an exceptional lodger at his hotel, an 
 exceptional being generally. The ordinary rules 
 
A TYPICAL NEW YORK MAN. 125 
 
 and penalties did not apply to him. Once more to 
 borrow his own form of phrase, he had " the inside 
 track " everywhere. I would occasionally specu- 
 late upon the possible change which might result 
 in him from the loss of his fortune. As it is, he 
 pays for every one of his presumptions, his exac- 
 tions, and pays double. His path through life is 
 paved with fees, emoluments, perquisites. Even 
 some of his best friends regard him (though un- 
 consciously, perhaps) through the delicate mist 
 rising from a perfect consomme, or the smoke of 
 an incomparable Reina Victoria. And, after all, 
 the talk about New York millionnaires possessing 
 such great powers of entertainment very often hits 
 wide of the truth. With our enormous expenses 
 of living, a man must be twice a millionnaire, if 
 married, and dwelling in sumptuous surroundings, 
 to regale his friends en gar$on as Johnston Gilles- 
 pie does. Well, I now and then muse, strip John- 
 ston Gillespie of his power to do this. Bring him 
 face to face with the world as it really exists, its 
 bare, hard facts, demands, necessities, ungilded and 
 unembellished. Bend his plump and prosperous 
 shoulders beneath the galling wheel of actual 
 economy. Let him bargain with his tailor instead 
 of patronizing that tradesman. Let him furtively 
 weigh the chances of receiving a Delmonico dinner 
 instead of nonchalantly extending invitations to 
 one. Let him calculate the amount on deposit at 
 his bank instead of dashing off a cheque without 
 the least thought of making an over-draft. What 
 
126 SOCIAL SILHOUETTES. 
 
 a lesson it would teach him, this dauntless auto- 
 crat, this typical New-Yorker, the product of a 
 great city in a great country, whose most crying 
 fault is its worship of the money he would then 
 have lost ! 
 
 I should like to make him poor for two or three 
 days, and then reinstate him in his old opulence. 
 I am too fond of him to wish him any longer or 
 severer punishment than this. And there would 
 be a certain experimental gratification in watching 
 how he bore his adversity, what sunken qualities 
 of good or evil it called to the surface of his char- 
 acter, what optimism or pessimism, what energy or 
 despair, what resignation or revolt, what serenity 
 or disturbance, it might have the effect of develop- 
 ing. 
 
 We often speak of people as purse-proud. A 
 good many men in New York the most unrefined 
 city, in proportion to its size and civilization, that 
 has probably ever existed strongly resemble 
 Johnston Gillespie. That is why I have termed 
 him a typical New-Yorker. And these others, 
 like or unlike him in many minor details of tem- 
 perament or disposition, do not deserve the term 
 of purse-proud any more than he does. They are 
 simply reliant upon their purses, a very different 
 condition. They have learned to mistake their 
 wealth for themselves, an easy enough matter 
 here, where it confers almost every degree of 
 human importance. They have lost the discrimi- 
 nating tact to perceive just where they end and 
 
A TYPICAL NEW YORK MAN. 127 
 
 their bank accounts begin. Kings, however 
 petty, have always had their " divine rights " to 
 steady themselves against. But such pettier 
 princelings as Johnston Gillespie, failing in any 
 similar convenient refuge, grow to rate as a conse- 
 quence of their own personality the court so amply 
 paid them. They forget the terrible social momen- 
 tum of riches, and the equally terrible paralysis 
 of poverty. They are like men sailing in a mag- 
 nificent ocean-steamer, for whom even the great 
 surges have a toss, a flash, a glory, and indeed an 
 amusement, not felt by the inmates of smaller 
 craft. 
 
 But I don't think there is any very serious chance 
 that Johnston Gillespie will ever lose his money. 
 It is remarkably well invested. If I am not mis- 
 taken, he has got a " wrinkle " there too, in the 
 way of political influence or of some noted capi- 
 talist's vigilant friendship. It would be almost 
 extraordinary if this were not the case. Yes, it 
 is extremely likely that for years to come, my 
 friend, with all his faults and all his virtues, will 
 remain a typical New York man. 
 
128 SOCIAL SILHOUETTES. 
 
 XL 
 
 THE YOUNG GENTLEMAN WHO SAYS "OH, MY !" 
 
 THERE are some people of whom one can never 
 think without having a special dominant trait 
 instantly suggest itself. I believe it is the great 
 Taine who says, in speaking of Shakespeare's gift 
 of character-drawing, that the people made to live 
 by his dramatic contemporaries always stand for 
 a single quality, as revenge, hate, veracity, menda- 
 city, and so on through the whole gamut of vices, 
 virtues, foibles, sins, or peccadilloes; while the 
 one master wrought complex personalities, in 
 which fault and excellence, flaw and purity, were 
 wondrously and humanly interblended. From 
 this point of view, it is not my opinion regarding 
 Mr. Josiah Spicer that Shakespeare would have 
 cared very much about handling him. I think 
 the master would have passed him over to Ben 
 Jonson, or some lesser luminary, without a mur- 
 mur. The moment you saw him or recollected him 
 you were reminded of a single fact, his excessive 
 modesty. It seemed, indeed, a sort of boldness, 
 because it so mantled him, so distinguished him, 
 so emphasized him. 
 
THE YOUNG GENTLEMAN WHO SAYS "Oil, MY!" 120 
 
 He was not more than two and thirty when I 
 first met him. He went to all the places where I 
 went. His tough prosaic name, Josiah Spicer, 
 was an old one in New York, as old names go 
 here. There had surely been five anterior Josiah 
 Spicers, and since the first had made himself impor- 
 tant, well over a century ago, in mercantile deal- 
 ings, all the others had done something, or been 
 something, preservative of the family prestige. 
 There was not, however, any prestige at all about 
 my Josiah. The money which usually went with 
 the name had not gone with his. It had drifted 
 off into a channel of somewhat remote cousins, 
 and the existent Josiah had to get along on a 
 rather moderate bank clerkship. I have always 
 thought this a decided pity. He would have 
 taken care of a fortune so conscientiously and 
 neatly, if he had had one ! He took care of him- 
 self so conscientiously and neatly ! He was quite 
 short of stature, and had a long, pale, beardless face, 
 with a mustache that was a little timid, downy, 
 flaxen curve. He dressed with great precision, 
 which, after all, was not shiningly to his credit, as 
 there was really so little of him to dress. His 
 shoulders were so slight and drooping, his chest 
 was so narrow and puny, his figure was so spare 
 and fragile, that you could not help fancying his 
 tailor and shirtmaker must reap solid profit from 
 their limited proportions. 
 
 If he was not liked in society, he was certainly 
 not disliked there. It might be recorded of him 
 
130 SOCIAL SILHOUETTES. 
 
 that he was most genially and indulgently tol- 
 erated. The haughtiest young belle would not 
 have dreamed of snubbing him, though her adorers 
 were a score and her bouquets legion. He would 
 never have put himself in an attitude to be 
 snubbed. At parties he was always a nimble, 
 bland, obliging convenience. All that he appar- 
 ently wanted to do in the gay world was to hand 
 an opportune ice, to slip forward a desired chair, 
 to propel his lithe, alert little shape through vora- 
 cious crowds at the supper-table, and bring calmly, 
 securely but never triumphantly, a glass of iced 
 water, perhaps, to some parched maiden. He filled 
 a place, and he filled it with consummate fidelity 
 and thoroughness. He accepted social life not 
 merely as a pleasure, but as a duty. He was very 
 much in earnest about it ; he had not a shadow of 
 the ordinary affectations which one meets ; he knew 
 everybody, everybody's grandfather, everybody's 
 lack of a grandfather, everybody's claim, rank, 
 status. But he was not at all snobbish : he simply 
 took the fashionable New York world as he found 
 it, and danced with it, talked inanities to it, waited 
 011 it, fed it, carried its fans, called its carriages, 
 enjoyed it, respected it, and in his way supported, 
 befriended, ameliorated it. I used sometimes to 
 watch the numerous bored people about Josiah 
 (we always called him " Josiah " in full, as if by 
 a sort of harmless ironic pleasantry), and ask my- 
 self whether, with all his insignificance, absence 
 of repose, unaristocratic good humor and willing- 
 
THE YOUNG GENTLEMAN WHO SAYS "OH, MY!" 131 
 
 ness -to let people make use of him, he was not 
 having decidedly the best time of it ; whether, in 
 short, among all the futile maze and babble and 
 masquerade of the thing, he had not been lucky 
 enough to find the one true talisman of hearty 
 enjoyment, the illusive yet tangible secret de 
 bonheur. 
 
 I always liked to have him near me when I led 
 the cotillon, He would give me little practical 
 hints that were of no mean worth ; he would aid me, 
 by a wise whisper, in the generalship of my flying 
 artillery, my light infantry, my phalanxes of rose- 
 bud damsels and Columbia College striplings. He 
 nearly always danced with an uncompassionated 
 wall-flower. He had not income enough to engage 
 a partner beforehand and send the imperative 
 bouquet. But I don't think he cared. It was part 
 of his phenomenal modesty and humility not to 
 care. 
 
 That hard, cold, handsome Anne Trinitychapel, 
 with a smile like lit steel and a wit like the stab of 
 a needle, once spoke of Josiah to me as " the young 
 gentleman who says ' Oh, my ! ' : I bit my lip with 
 vexation, being a sworn ally of Josiah's ; but it hit 
 him off so aptly and shrewdly that its cruel echo 
 never left -my brain. Anne Trinitychapel had 
 sketched him enduringly for me by a single 
 Ilogarthian stroke. 
 
 He certainly did say " Oh, my ! " a great deal. He 
 exclaimed it, he murmured it, he prattled it, he 
 even looked it when he did not say it. His voice 
 
132 SOCIAL SILHOUETTES. 
 
 was naturally high and thin : no other voice could 
 have been expected from so meagre a personnel. I 
 grew to be so haunted by this caustic little epigram 
 concerning him that one evening in Lent, when he 
 dropped into my room with me after a small dinner 
 at the Jerseyflats', I was on the verge of telling 
 Josiah frankly to guard against his beloved voca- 
 tive. 
 
 But I soon discovered, this same evening, that 
 he had become unwontedly melancholy, and soon 
 learned the cause of his depression. This put all 
 thought of his " Oh, mys I " out of my head ; and I 
 even forgot his peculiarity while he began, in 
 familiar though subdued falsetto : 
 
 " Oh, my I Mark, it 's dreadful ! Yes, it 's per- 
 fectly dreadful I The older I grow, the more I get 
 to think how dreadful it is! I mean about my 
 never having been abroad, you know." 
 
 "Never having been abroad, Josiah?" I re- 
 peated. "Well, really, I don't see anything so 
 very dreadful in it, do you ? " 
 
 "Do I?" Here Josiah gave a little sneeze, for 
 we were sitting rather close together, and the 
 smoke of my cigar took a course straight into his 
 minute pink nostrils. He hates tobacco, though 
 he says he does n't. " Oh, my ! " he pursued with 
 extreme seriousness, " it seems to follow me, Mark, 
 everywhere. Yes, it does. I never meet any 
 stranger, and talk ten minutes, that I don't dread 
 some reference to Paris, or London, or Vienna. I 
 don't mind Vienna so much, because lots of 
 
THE YOUNG GENTLEMAN WHO SAYS "Oil, MY!" 133 
 
 Americans, you know, have n't been there. But 
 London and Paris, everybody has seen them. 
 Everybody except me ! And I 'm always afraid 
 they 're going to find out the truth, and they nearly 
 always do. Then they open their eyes and stare 
 at me. ' What ! ' they say, c never been ! ' And I 
 have to answer, ' No, but I hope to go soon.' And 
 that sounds so lame and silly ! And they always 
 pity me. I 'm sure that nice Lizzie Bleecker, 
 whom I took in to dinner to-night, pitied me. 
 And, oh, my ! Mark, I 'm so tired of being pitied ! 
 I must go. I must go as soon as I can manage." 
 
 This unaccustomed lamentation from Josiah 
 evoked my own pity. I felt very much like offer- 
 ing to loan him funds, and would gladly have done 
 so if I had not been sure of the lifted hand, and 
 the shocked start, and the fluttered " Oh, my ! " for 
 I well knew that Josiah would just as soon take a 
 plunge off a house-top as dive into the hazardous 
 regions of debt. 
 
 As it was, his absurd and yet serious cause of 
 unhappiness was one which I could understand 
 and appreciate. Of the many kinds of snobbery 
 rampant within our brave republic, that of per- 
 petually referring to foreign travels can by no 
 means be ranked ,as least odious. Poor Josiah 
 was one of its victims. He had long suffered in 
 silence, and at length his misery had burst its 
 bonds. He had had every country of Europe 
 more or less in coalition against him for years. 
 Among the people whom he met, I can perfectly 
 
134 SOCIAL SILHOUETTES. 
 
 comprehend the isolation from which he suffered. 
 In some obscure Western town, where the trav- 
 elled resident is exceptional, and to mention the 
 National Gallery or the Louvre is to throw an 
 awed silence over rustic tea-tables, his position 
 might have been wholly different. But here in 
 New York he was engirt by a dreary invisible soli- 
 tude, not to be measured by any mechanical 
 process, and yet as wide as the Atlantic Ocean, 
 which he had never crossed. Subsequent ques- 
 tioning of Josiah resulted in the most harrowing 
 disclosures. Naturally of a very honest turn, he 
 had been tempted by mauvaise honte into painful 
 hypocrisies. He was very much ashamed of 
 them, but he had employed them, none the less. 
 More than once he had concealed for a whole even- 
 ing the fact of his never having been abroad, when 
 the person with whom he talked had evidently a 
 contrary idea, and had several times clearly indi- 
 cated as much by distinct statements ; as, for 
 example, by saying during the narration of some 
 story which dealt with Paris, "You remember 
 how the Boulevard des Capucines runs close by 
 the Madeleine ? " or, " You of course recollect, Mr. 
 Spicer, how dry one can keep one's self under those 
 arcades of the Palais Royal on a rainy day?'* 
 And to remarks like these poor Josiah owned that 
 he had more than once responded with a palpable 
 " Yes." I felt the situation to be damning, of 
 course. 
 " Oh, my ! " Josiah now went on. " The worst 
 
THE YOUNG GENTLEMAN WIIO SAYS "Oil, MY!" 135 
 
 part of it, Mark, is that my remorse will not pre- 
 vent me from doing it again." 
 
 " That is absolutely horrible, Josiah," I said un- 
 der my mustache. " I don't know what ought to be 
 done with you. I think I shall get a little placard 
 and pin it secretly upon you behind. The pla- 
 card shall read : 4 This young man has never been 
 abroad, and, if he says that he has been, people 
 are warned against him as a shameful nctionist.' ' 
 
 " Oh, my ! " said Josiah with a shudder, as if he 
 really expected me to carry out this threat. " But 
 I must go, Mark," he continued. " I don't see just 
 how I can manage it at present, but I must go." 
 
 He did manage it, however, the next spring. 
 His employers granted him a vacation, and his 
 past economies granted him a five-hundred-dollar 
 tour with Cook's tickets everywhere. I burst into 
 an irrepressible laugh when he told me about 
 the Cook's tickets. Knowing Josiah's affability 
 and companionability as I did, it was so easy to 
 imagine him on terms of expansive intimacy with 
 about twenty shabby-genteel tourists, flying over 
 the Continent in their company, and perhaps being 
 willingly imposed upon and made a commodity of 
 by all their feminine members. I thought regret- 
 fully of how pleasant it would be to take him 
 decently through Europe, and hear his enthusi- 
 astic " Oh, mys ! " in Trafalgar Spuare, or the Place 
 de la Concorde, or on the Piazza San Marco. But 
 as it was, I knew just what fate lay in store for 
 him. He would be whirled through Antwerp, 
 
136 SOCIAL SILHOUETTES. 
 
 scarcely getting his breath before he had " done " 
 the tomb of Rubens and the " Descent from the 
 Cross;" then he would be whirled again through 
 Brussels, till the lovely Sainte Gudule, with its 
 pillars and cloisters and tracery, was all a sculptu- 
 resque blur to him, and the Wiertz gallery and 
 the Muse'e Royal were pictorial shadows; and 
 then he would perhaps dash through Switzerland, 
 seeing Chamouni for two hours, Interlaken for 
 one, Lucerne for fifty minutes, and various other 
 charming spots for periods of lesser duration. 
 That is what would happen to poor little Josiah, 
 for that is the way the Cook's tourists usually 
 rush things. I am not writing anything against 
 them as an idea, an enterprise, a civilizing factor, 
 and I think it much better to go that way than 
 not to go at all. But there are superior ways of 
 going, and I felt sorry enough that Josiah could 
 not have experienced one of these. 
 
 His method of travel was divulged to me as a 
 prodigious secret. " Oh, my ! Mark," he said on the 
 eve of his departure, " don't tell a single soul, or 
 it will be perfectly dreadful ! " And I did not 
 tell a single soul. I respected little Josiah's se- 
 cret as though it were the precious enjoinder of a 
 d/ing kinsman. His absence lasted nearly till 
 autumn ; and when anybody asked me concerning 
 him, I said, " Oh, Josiah's gone abroad, you know," 
 with as grand an air as if he had had the captain's 
 stateroom on the "Alaska" all to himself, and two 
 body-servants on the same steamer besides. 
 
THE YOUNG GENTLEMAN WHO SAYS "Oil, MY!" 137 
 
 It was delightful to consider that the poor little 
 fellow's woes would soon be over, that all his 
 pathetic embarrassments and concealments and 
 make-shifts would shortly terminate in a calm con- 
 sciousness of having "been abroad." Henceforth 
 the thorn was to be removed from his flesh, the 
 rankling dart from his bosom. He would have 
 been abroad when he returned to us. If people 
 spoke to him about Norway and the midnight sun, 
 he could shake his head, and answer with respecta- 
 ble frankness : " No a I did n't get as far as 
 that." If they tried to blind him with the sands 
 of Egypt, or prod him with the toe of the Italian 
 boot, he could candidly admit their right to do 
 either. But London, Paris, even Switzerland, 
 these were to make him proof against their polite 
 yet galling surprise forever afterwards. 
 
 He returned in early September, and I was al- 
 most the first to shake his slim, cool little hand. 
 When I asked him how he had enjoyed himself, it 
 was just as I had expected. There was immedi- 
 ately a torrent of " Oh, mys ! " He showed me the 
 inevitable packet of photographs, the Strasbourg 
 Cathedral, and the Jungfrau, and the Arc de Tri- 
 omphe. I examined them all with religious inter- 
 est, and did not say anything about their being 
 purchasable in Broadway, or even Sixth Avenue. 
 I was genuinely glad at Josiah's gladness, and 
 thankful that the weight of his distress had been 
 removed. He showed me on the map of Europe 
 the course " they " had taken, and I confess that 
 
138 SOCIAL SILHOUETTES. 
 
 this portion of the map has never seemed to me 
 quite the same since. It has always been frescoed, 
 from Liverpool circuitously to Paris, with a tiny 
 scroll of " Oh, mys ! " 
 
 During the next winter Josiah and I often met. 
 He was quite unchanged in his pretty civilities, his 
 miniature knight-errantries. He gave himself no 
 airs because he had "been abroad." He had 
 been a passionate pilgrim, but he made no parade 
 of his enthusiasm. He handed ices and he held 
 fans with the same loyalty, agility, and decorum as 
 of old. And yet I clearly perceived, after a while, 
 that little Josiah was not happy. 
 
 I observed him, I watched him, and finally, be- 
 ing determined to pierce the root of his new 
 dissatisfaction, I roundly questioned him one 
 evening concerning it. 
 
 " Josiah," I said solemnly, " something weighs 
 on your mind. Are you in love ? Can it be that 
 you are in love ? If so, tell me the worst." 
 
 We were standing together at the corner of his 
 street. It was a late hour of the night ; we had 
 been to a protracted dance at the Macdougals' in 
 Washington Square. Josiah looked up at me 
 he always had to look up at me when we stood to- 
 gether startledly in the obscure lamplight. 
 
 " No, Mark," he said, " I 'm not in love. Oh, no ! 
 it's not that. But what makes you you think 
 it 's any tiling ? " 
 
 " I certainly do think it 's something, Josiah," 
 was my reply. His own had pricked curiosity. 
 
THE YOUNG GENTLEMAN WHO SAYS "OH, MY!" 139 
 
 " A little while ago you were wretched because 
 you 'd never been abroad. And now " 
 
 He suddenly laid his hand upon my arm. He 
 looked up into my eyes with what in anybody else 
 I should have considered a terrible gravity. 
 
 " And now, Mark," he murmured, " I feel that I 
 I have been only once I " 
 
 " Only once ? " I repeated confusedly. " Of 
 course you have. Well, what of it? Who said 
 you had been twice ? " 
 
 Josiah had drooped his head, and he now som- 
 brely shook it. " The fact is, Mark, that I thought 
 if I 'd been I 'd been, and there would be an end. 
 But nothing of the sort. Always before, people 
 were tormenting me with their amazement that I 
 had n't been; but now they 're tormenting me 
 with their amazement that I 've been only once. 
 Oh, my ! it 's too dreadful ! I thought I could talk 
 about Piccadilly, and the view from the Rigi, and 
 the Avenue de 1'Opera, to my heart's content. 
 But there's something I don't know what it 
 is that makes them always ask, after I 've 
 spoken just a few minutes, 'Was this your first 
 time, Mr. Spicer?' For a little while I did n't 
 mind. I used to say ' yes ' quite carelessly. But 
 I 've discovered that when I say it was my first 
 time, they look at me with just as much pity and 
 just as much astonishment as when I used to con- 
 fess that I had n't been at all. And now I 've 
 grown to dread 4 Was this your first time, Mr. 
 Spicer?' quite as much as I used to dread 
 
140 SOCIAL SILHOUETTES. 
 
 1 Have n't you ever been ? ' . . . Oh, my ! I don't see 
 why they can't leave that other question alone, 
 do you, Mark ? If I 've been, I 've been ; and what 
 earthly difference ought it to make whether I 've 
 been only once or a dozen times ? " 
 
 " What earthly difference ought it to make, 
 indeed ! " I mused, after I had left poor little 
 Josiah, with this his new lamentation ringing 
 oddly in my ears. 
 
 We are a great republic or declare ourselves 
 to be. Washington founded us : Lincoln died for 
 us. Had not the wail of Josiah Spicer a very 
 subtle and satirical meaning ? Why do we think 
 and talk so much about " the other side," from 
 which (as we affirm) we have broken away so 
 gloriously, and to which (as we also affirm) we 
 compare so handsomely? We victimize little 
 Josiah. Let us be careful how we stultify our- 
 selves. If democracy means anything, it means 
 consistency and self-respect. Rome never bowed 
 to Greece till after .she had conquered it. In St. 
 James's and Kensington and Chelsea they don't 
 make it a cachet of respectability to have been to 
 44 the States." There is a good deal in so valuing 
 ourselves that others will value us. 
 
 "Might we not learn," I asked myself as I 
 strolled homeward through the late New York 
 darkness, " a rather wholesome lesson, if we chose, 
 from the wail of the persecuted little gentleman 
 who says 4 Oh, my'?" 
 
THE LADY WHO INVADED NEW YORK. 141 
 
 XII. 
 
 THE LADY WHO INVADED NEW YORK. 
 
 IF there is any living woman with whom, on 
 ordinary principles of judgment, I should not 
 connect the idea of despondency or cynicism, it is 
 Mrs. Brummagem Baker. True, I recollect the 
 time (I was then a mere youth) when she was 
 the target of many scornful little arrows from 
 society's replete quiver. Even when I first 
 began to go about, her ostracism was by no means 
 an ended matter. There were still certain " good 
 houses" that refused to receive her. Stories of 
 her pertinacious pushing were still current. Echoes 
 of the old jeering laughter yet lived and rever- 
 berated. She had not merely sought to pass the 
 gates : hundreds had done that, and could still do 
 it with success. She had fixed her eyes upon a 
 high place in the citadel itself. She wanted to 
 reign and not serve. She wanted to climb, and 
 climb high. Her intent soon transpiring, opposi- 
 tion had met her at every step. It might pictur- 
 esquely be said that she used the alpenstock of 
 resolve to cross the icy glaciers of pride and the 
 deep crevasses of snobbery. But it had been an 
 alpenstock of gold : she was very rich. If she had 
 
142 SOCIAL SILHOUETTES. 
 
 not so soon shown her hand in the game, I think 
 she might have won it more easily ; for when has 
 money, with a little decent breeding behind it, 
 failed to find favor among our sham New York 
 noblesse? But for some reason this lady preferred 
 to show her hand. She was not at all ashamed of 
 her struggle : it was almost as if she wanted to 
 have it made very public, thus heightening her tri- 
 umph when this should arrive, and giving herself a 
 sort of historic note in the future unwritten annals 
 of our metropolitan life. 
 
 Her money had not been that of her dead hus- 
 band. Mr. Brummagem Baker, as far as I could 
 learn, had been a cad and a sot, and had led her a 
 wretched life somewhere in the West, until finally 
 his death freed her far more desirably than the 
 divorce which she is said to have been on the 
 verge of securing. And very soon afterward the 
 stars themselves had fallen into her threadbare lap. 
 It must have been a very threadbare lap indeed, for 
 she had just got an ill-paid post-office appointment 
 in an Ohio town, when the news reached her that 
 a California uncle whom she had never seen had 
 died, leaving her his share of a silver-mine. She 
 sold out her share rather promptly, and got three 
 millions of dollars by the sale. She might, it was 
 declared, have reaped triple this sum if she had 
 kept her possession for a few years longer. But 
 three round millions were all she wanted, and she 
 had no wish to dwell in the West. Her ambition, 
 leaping into active life with her sudden prosperity, 
 
THE LADY WHO INVADED NEW YORK. 143 
 
 tended exclusively eastward. And eastward her 
 course of empire took its way. 
 
 She was then considered by no means a hand- 
 some woman, though she must undoubtedly have 
 had what is called "a presence." For a year or 
 two she lived quietly, observing keenly. She 
 seems to have been born with a vast natural aris- 
 tocratic impulse. In this country of ours, which 
 is a complex reproduction, as regards its people, of 
 every nationality and every personality under the 
 sun, you often find individual traits and qualities 
 manifest which would appear wholly without pre- 
 cedent. But heredity accounts for everything in 
 character, and the knowledge of a great-grand- 
 father is a rare species of information through- 
 out our monstrous masses; the instinct to shine 
 among patricians is no more inconsistent with birth 
 iii a log-cabin than is a salient aptitude for making 
 shoes or rearing cattle. 
 
 Mrs. Brummagem Baker's first attempt at enter- 
 ing society in New York was a magnificent defeat. 
 She must then have been about five and thirty. 
 She had rented a roomy mansion in the lower part 
 of Fifth Avenue. She had heard (I shall not give 
 the names of her male counsellors and advisers, 
 though some of them were enough dans le monde 
 to have known better) that money and assurance 
 would carry everything, and that all she need do 
 was to throw open her doors and invite the proper 
 sorts of people. She did not know any of the 
 proper sorts of people. She did not know any sort 
 
144 SOCIAL SILHOUETTES. 
 
 of people whatever, except a few pleasure-hunting 
 club-men whom she had fallen in with, Heaven 
 knows how, and who used to give her thirsty ears 
 delicious bits of gossip about the select world 
 where she longed to shine. Report declared that 
 she borrowed a long list of names from Brown, the 
 now deceased sexton of Grace Church, and in this 
 Avay learned whom to invite ; but I do not believe 
 that or similar stories of poor, corpulent, eccentric 
 Brown. I do not believe that with all his oddities 
 of deportment, his extraordinary impudence, his 
 remarkable candor, this man, who for years was 
 spoiled and petted by our so-called " old families," 
 and made to believe that none of their entertain- 
 ments were complete without his bulky form sat in 
 their doorways and shrieked bullyingly to the ter- 
 rified coachmen of their guests, ever so forgot or 
 so cheapened his position, such as it was. " Brown's 
 lists " used to be a good deal talked about in other 
 days, his " list of dancing-men," his " list of heavy 
 swells," his list of the second, third, or fourth rate 
 Amphitryons. But they are in one respect like 
 the Junius letters : you could never meet a person 
 who had seen them, signed, in the original manu- 
 script. 
 
 However, some one gave Mrs. Brummagem Baker 
 a list. It must have been very copious ; it included 
 " everybody," from the inevitable Spuytenduyvils, 
 Poughkeepsies, and Amsterdams, to the last Smiths, 
 Smitherses, or Smithsons who had succeeded in 
 being considered des notres. 
 
THE LADY WHO INVADED NEW YORK. 145 
 
 The evening of the ball -arrived. Brown had 
 been secured. The spacious house (it belonged to 
 the Gramercys, or the Maclisons, or some such 
 family, who were then in Europe) was beautifully 
 decorated with flowers. Mrs. Brummagem Baker, 
 gowned with splendor, stood to receive her guests. 
 She had had no acceptances and no regrets, for 
 her festivity was an "At Home," and hence no 
 reply was expected. A little after ten o'clock her 
 guests began to arrive. They arrived in consid- 
 erable and increasing numbers. Mrs. Baker bowed 
 and smiled at her gracious best. The concourse 
 augmented ; the rooms became at least fairly filled. 
 But an awful fact at length dawned upon the 
 mind of the bland hostess. Her ball was almost 
 wholly composed of gentlemen ! The men had all 
 come, but with exasperatingly rare exceptions they 
 had left their wives at home or their wives had 
 preferred to remain at home. 
 
 It was a severe blow. If such an affair should 
 occur now, a hundred newspapers would have 
 printed accounts of it from our present ubiquitous 
 "New York correspondent." But then matters 
 were different. The " society column," in all its 
 classic grace and taste, was yet to be reared amid 
 modern journalism. Mrs. Brummagem Baker's 
 next step was to purchase a very attractive villa 
 on the Newport Cliffs. She drove in charming 
 equipages through Bellevue Avenue, when the 
 afternoon light slanted over the sea, and the 
 breezes freshened with a marine coolness. She 
 
146 SOCIAL SILHOUETTES. 
 
 must have looked very impressive, leaning back in 
 her landau, with her arched nose and her imperial 
 poise of head, and her large, creamy eyelids. But 
 no one bowed to her except a few of the men. 
 She fought desperately that year, but without 
 avail. Every door was closed against her. 
 
 " What shall I do ? " she thought, as the autumn 
 was coming on. She had not in the slightest de- 
 gree lost courage. She understood perfectly that 
 she had flown her kite so very high in the begin- 
 ning as to make other kites, which had serenely 
 floated aloft for a long time, both astonished and 
 indignant. She had inarched upon the enemy 
 boldly, with a flourish of trumpets. And now she 
 must take the punishment for her frank presump- 
 tion. Strategy and deft manoeuvre might have 
 been forgiven her; but the bearing of one who 
 demands, and the step of one who conquers, were 
 quite another matter. 
 
 " What shall I do next ? " she thought. She 
 had soon decided on what to do, and she did it. 
 
 All this happened long before my time, as the 
 phrase goes. When I knew Mrs. Baker, she was a 
 woman of stately maturity ("stately maturity" 
 expresses her age so much better than " fifty-five " 
 or "fifty-seven" could do), and she was every- 
 where accepted as a reigning social dignitary. I 
 have always thought her a very brilliant and de- 
 lightful woman. I " took to her " from the first 
 hour of our acquaintance. In appearance she 
 was faded: you could judge her past bloom by the 
 
THE LADY WHO INVADED NEW YORK. 147 
 
 tarnish time had put upon it now. It had never 
 been a winsome or fascinating bloom. It had had 
 the demureness and all the coldness of a dahlia, 
 never the delicate intoxication of a rose. When 
 her tall, well-moulded figure first dawned upon 
 me, and I looked into the hard, bright black of 
 her eyes, noted the flowing yet inflexible line of 
 her lips, observed the strongly intellectual devel- 
 opment at her temples, I told myself that here 
 was a woman who had never known the first thrill 
 of real passion. Power had been her god, and 
 power of a certain sort only. And I was right. 
 
 We became excellent friends. She was just the 
 sort of friend I needed, too, at the beginning of 
 my social career. She saw through her own sex 
 as one sees through glass, and could tell their 
 foibles and their faults as one might count the 
 stones at the bottom of a very clear spring. I 
 will not speak of the golden warnings and wise 
 hints that she gave me. It was like getting 
 "points " from some shrewd Wall Street operator. 
 I hope that I listened with a due respect for my 
 precious opportunities, since Mrs. Baker was not 
 wont to distribute them broadcast. Whether I 
 have duly profited by them or no, I leave to those 
 who have watched with any interest the rising of 
 my fashionable star, as Disraeli might have said in 
 his earlier novels. 
 
 But it was not long before Mrs. Baker aston- 
 ished me by the depth of weariness and even dis- 
 gust which she betrayed. To the world at large 
 
148 SOCIAL SILHOUETTES. 
 
 she was the bright personification of contentment, 
 self-satisfaction, success. To me and a few others 
 she revealed an irony of fatigue and disillusion. 
 Her bitterness made me almost shudder when I 
 was first brought face to face with it. It was 
 like finding a nest of rats behind a sumptuous 
 velvet arras. We were seated in her almost regal 
 drawing-rooms at the time. We had been talk- 
 ing about some charitable amateur theatricals, of 
 which she was one of the foremost lady patronesses, 
 and I had consented (Oh, dire and never-repeated 
 experience !) to act as secretary. We had dropped 
 business for the present. We had drifted into a 
 sort of semi-philosophic train of conversational 
 gossip. We were asking each other what, after all, 
 the lives and aims of Mrs. This and Mr. That (peo- 
 ple whom we both knew well) had amounted to. 
 We were saying very uncharitable things, but 
 perhaps a good many true things as well. If our 
 friends had been behind the door, they would no 
 doubt have hated us. But I am sure they would 
 have secretly admitted, deep down beyond the fer- 
 ment of their wrath, that some of our charges 
 were full of justice. 
 
 " Well," suddenly exclaimed Mrs. Brummagem 
 Baker, " and what has my life amounted to ? 
 Have you ever thought at all on that subject?" 
 
 I looked at her with surprise. " I 've thought a 
 good deal on the subject," I soon replied, " and 
 my conclusion is that you are one of the most 
 notably successful women of your period." 
 
THE LADY WHO INVADED NEW YORK. 149 
 
 She gave a light laugh. She always had a 
 crisply epigrammatic way of speaking on every 
 subject. They had said years ago that her voice 
 was nasal and "American." (It is astonishing 
 how fond certain Americans are of turning that 
 national adjective into a contemptuous signifi- 
 cance.) But there was no nasal tone in Mrs. 
 Baker's voice now. She spoke, indeed, with a 
 slightly foreign accent or at least with a short, 
 tripping treatment of her syllables, and an occa- 
 sional upward inflection at the end of a sentence. 
 She had a breezy, indolent manner, too, as if 
 nothing that she heard or saw were quite impor- 
 tant enough to be serious about. Her style was 
 decidedly French ; it was, moreover, a trifle Eng- 
 lish now and then ; but it was not ever in the 
 slightest degree American. 
 
 " You 're so good to say that ! " she declared. " I 
 suppose everybody thinks me successful. What 
 an odious little word, by the way ! It implies 
 straining and struggling. I detest it." 
 
 " Then I am very sorry to have used it," was 
 my reply. 
 
 She changed the subject soon afterward, arid I 
 understood that she was disinclined to talk further 
 regarding herself. But repeatedly, in other suc- 
 ceeding interviews, she would drop certain innu- 
 endoes regarding her own mental ennui. At last 
 I said to her : 
 
 "Frankly, Mrs. Baker, are you not satisfied 
 with your career ? " 
 
150 SOCIAL SILHOUETTES. 
 
 " Satisfied ? " she murmured, looking downward 
 and seeming to consider the word. Then she 
 raised her eyes. " No," she said slowly, looking 
 at me with great intentness, " I am prodigiously 
 ^satisfied." 
 
 There had been a multitudinous dinner that 
 evening at the Lexingtons' in Lexington Avenue. 
 The Lexingtons always give their dinners in the 
 most ridiculous way. No one who has ever 
 wanted to "take in" anybody else has ever, 
 even by accident, managed to do so. Everybody 
 is placed uncongenially next everybody else. If I 
 had an arch-enemy of the feminine sex, and had 
 accepted a dinner at the Lexingtons', I should not 
 be surprised to find a card on the hall table (as I 
 squeezed down my chapeau bras and got the foot- 
 man to disarray me of my wraps) giving the name 
 of this girl or matron as my future companion 
 through ten or twelve tedious courses. As it 
 chanced that evening, I had to seat myself beside 
 Minnie Maidenlane, who is at once the most 
 amiable and vapid of young virgins. I had 
 escaped from the men as soon as possible after 
 coffee and cigars were served, and had joined the 
 ladies in that exquisite front room of the Lexing- 
 tons', where, as everyone knows, they have a hun- 
 dren good things in the way of ornament, and 
 some pictures that it needs almost the purse of 
 Fortunio to hang on their nice walls, decorated 
 by the aesthetic Marcotte. I found Mrs. Baker 
 near a big palm, which towered in front of an 
 
THE LADY WHO INVADED NEW YORK. 151 
 
 alcove window where there were tufted cushions 
 piled quite orientally. We were seated here to- 
 gether as she gave me her last recorded response. 
 
 " You, of all women living," I said to her mean- 
 ingly (it was so pleasant to say something mean- 
 ingly to some one, after those hollow inanities with 
 Minnie Maidenlane ! ), should be the last to speak 
 of your life with dissatisfaction." 
 
 "How droll you are!" was the answer, given 
 with a shrug of the shoulders. " I know you to 
 have ideas, to be outside of this dreary fashionable 
 rabble, for it is nothing else, and yet you now 
 and then seem to be conventionally a part of it. 
 The older I grow, Mark Manhattan (and I am 
 growing very old, if the lamentations of my hair- 
 dresser are at all credible), I find myself more and 
 more convinced of how I have wasted my life." 
 
 " Wasted your life ! " I ejaculated. 
 
 "Yes, just what I tell you, dear boy, wasted 
 my life. Let me be autobiographical ; let me dip 
 into a real confession. What did I attempt to do? 
 . . . Oh, you need not look as if you had not heard 
 all about my past. It has been cried from the 
 house-tops, and you have surely heard many of the 
 shouts. I made a grand, silly attempt to be 
 what I am now, a New York leader. If I had de- 
 voted my brains (and you know very well that I 
 have brains, just as /know that you have) to some- 
 thing profitable, sensible, intellectual, truly woman- 
 ly, I might have accomplished results to be proud 
 of. But what did I do ? I flung everything away 
 
152 SOCIAL SILHOUETTES. 
 
 on a mere craze, a flimsy caprice. What is it 
 to be what I now am ? I have gained it, but what 
 have I gained? Ashes and dust! Do you not sup- 
 pose that I feel this ? The nonsense never seemed 
 to me nonsense till I had grasped it in my hand. 
 Then I realized what a bauble my coveted jewel 
 really was. To reign in New York society ! Bah ! 
 To be a queen with a crown of pasteboard ! To have 
 a kingdom of snobs ! To mean an unrepublican 
 product of a country that has tried to be a genuine 
 republic and has failed ! To have it said of me that 
 I was a great lady in a land whose great ladies 
 are laughed at abroad as mere silly copies of Euro- 
 pean aristocracy! Oh, this is what it all comes 
 to ! You need n't look polite, Mark Manhattan. 
 I don't know anyone who can look polite and 
 sympathetic, and all that sort of thing, better than 
 you can if you wish. What I tell you is perfectly 
 true. I was a fool, and I see it all now as I never 
 dreamed of seeing it before. But there is my 
 wretched trouble ! I see it all now, when I am 
 too old to cast it aside and begin anew. With my 
 money, I 'd give a million to be twenty years 
 younger. Just twenty years, that would suit me 
 perfectly. I 've wasted my life, as I told you. If I 'd 
 done the same that I have done, either in London or 
 Paris, I might have had a real salon by this time ; 
 I might have been a chatelaine, with Gladstone, 
 and Browning, and Ruskin, and Froude, and Hux- 
 ley, and Daudet, and FranQois Coppde, and even 
 Victor Hugo, for my guests and friends. I had it 
 
THE LADY WHO INVADED NEW YORK. 158 
 
 in me to do this sort of thing ; but the immense 
 mistake was that I came to New York from the 
 West, and caught the absurd fever of wanting 
 to be a grande dame here. And how pitifully 
 I struggled the more shame for me ! Oh, I 
 don't mind telling you just how pitifully I did 
 struggle in this big little New York, this village 
 with over two millions of inhabitants! Why, 
 when I had my cottage on the Newport Cliffs, 
 Mrs. Northriver Hastings had a cottage next me. 
 I wanted so much to have Mrs. Northriver 
 Hastings you know that little woman with 
 lemon-colored eyelashes, who always looks at you 
 as if she were going to sneeze T I wanted so 
 much to have Mrs. Northriver Hastings notice me 
 and call on me, that I did the most ludicrous thing ! 
 I can hardly realize now having done it, but I did 
 it, nevertheless. I had heard that Mrs. Hastings 
 was passionately fond of dogs. I got poor old 
 Sam Hackensack, who died last year, to find me 
 the loveliest white setter in the world. He found 
 it. That dog, with his charming curled hair, like 
 spun silk, used to follow me out on the lawn when- 
 ever I felt certain Mrs. Hastings was there, airing 
 herself, with her parasol and her long gloves and 
 her mighty self-importance. My dog was very 
 obedient. Just when he had got within a few 
 yards of Mrs. Hastings, I would give a faint chirp, 
 and he would come bounding to my side. It made 
 Mrs. Hastings almost insane, she wanted to pat 
 him so. But 1 wanted her to come and make 
 
154 SOCIAL SILHOUETTES. 
 
 friends with me. 'It was 'Love me, love my dog.' 
 But she loved my dog, and would not love me. 
 That little ruse failed, as every other had done, 
 though I was never one to try such tricks, as a 
 rule. . . . Well, I only confide to you that event as 
 an instance of my folly. ... By and by I got more 
 sensible. I managed it in a different way." 
 
 Mrs. Baker paused. I waited, thinking she 
 might wish to resume her phenomenal confession. 
 Then I said quite gently, 
 
 " You managed it. Of course you managed it. 
 But how did you manage it ? " 
 
 " Don't you know ? " she briskly resumed. " Did 
 you never hear ? " 
 
 I shook my head. "No," I answered. "Remem- 
 ber that when I swam into your ken you had man- 
 aged it." 
 
 She broke into a kind of musing laugh. " So I 
 had," she replied. " After I found that New York 
 would not notice me, I well, I conceived an 
 idea." 
 
 "And your idea?" 
 
 "Was to invade America with a coalition of 
 European powers. Oh, don't smile ! I assure you 
 that I did it. I went abroad. I went first to 
 London. I brought a few letters from some of the 
 men here you know, perhaps, that from the first 
 a good many of the men were on my side. I 
 took a house in Piccadilly during the season. I 
 drove rather nicely in Hyde Park. I was noticed. 
 The Marquis of Middlesex an immense London 
 
THE LADY WHO INVADED NEW YORK. 155 
 
 swell got somebody who knew me to present 
 him. That made me. The marquis presented 
 other friends of his. The women took me up. I 
 was an American, but you know very well that in 
 London an American means as much a Jones or a 
 Brown as it means a Knickerbocker or a Manhat- 
 tan. After I was thoroughly lancee there, I went 
 to Paris. An earl crossed with me from Newhaven 
 to Dieppe. The earl was in love with me, I think 
 but I forget, it is so long ago now. How- 
 ever, he presented me to some French cousins of 
 his in the Faubourg St. Germain stupid hole 
 that it is ! ... I returned to New York stamped 
 as the friend, the intimate, of foreign nobility. I 
 invaded New York with an Anglo-French alliance. 
 I conquered at once. I had not been here two days, 
 before Mrs. Zero, who had known the Duchess 
 of Cavendish, and Mrs. Blank, who had met the 
 Countess of Berkeley, called upon me with effusive 
 protestations of cordiality. And in this way I 
 managed it. But how horrid to look back upon 
 this mode of managing it ! How horrid to think 
 that I ever managed it at all ! " 
 
 " You invaded New York," I said with a smile, 
 " and conquered." 
 
 "Conquered! And what is my victory? To 
 reign in a society of adventurers, upstarts, pre- 
 tenders, humbugs, all as bad as I am, if not 
 worse." 
 
 I frowned at this. " You are far too severe on 
 New York society," I said. " If you invaded New 
 
156 SOCIAL SILHOUETTES. 
 
 York, as you admit, then you should also show the 
 mercy of a conqueror." 
 
 Mrs. Brummagem Baker laughed. Her dark 
 mood was ended. " Here comes the man with tea," 
 she said. "Go and get me a cup and mind, only 
 one lump of sugar. When you have got it, I 
 promise to speak well of New York society to 
 tell you the good things that I know about it. 
 That is, provided the tea suits my taste." 
 
 I brought the tea. But I am afraid, from results, 
 that it did not suit the taste of Mrs. Brummagem 
 Baker, the lady who had invaded New York. 
 
A NEPHEW OF MINE. 157 
 
 XIII. 
 
 A NEPHEW OF MINE. 
 
 " I SEE that your Bradford is beginning to go 
 out," I said to my sister Pauline one day. 
 
 " Beginning, my dear Mark ! " was the answer. 
 " Why, it seems to me as if he could not be more 
 immersed in all kinds of social engagements than 
 he is at present." 
 
 My sister said this with a certain melancholy 
 pride, as though her son's new importance entailed 
 his filial alienation, while at the same time it dealt 
 its distinct self-gratulating thrill. 
 
 Pauline is Mrs. Scoharie Putnam, and married 
 the dead millionnaire who was her husband when 
 I had reached the age of about nine. I remember 
 her wedding at Grace Church so well and yet so 
 oddly ! I can see her standing at the side of an 
 elderly gentleman who looked as wiry as a spider, 
 and had a little nebulous beard of grayish pink, 
 with eyelashes of the same color. Scoharie Put- 
 nam was a great match for her, or any girl, as I 
 recollect clearly comprehending even then ; for, 
 besides having a very large fortune, he was either 
 a Scoharie or a Putnam I was not quite sure 
 precisely which he was, in the sense of high ances- 
 
158 SOCIAL SILHOUETTES. 
 
 tral distinction, and no doubt compromised with 
 my own ignorance by splendidly ranking him as 
 a little of both. There stood Pauline at his side, 
 in the big dusky church with its painted windows, 
 wearing the densely flowered, costly heirloom of a 
 veil in which her own mother had been married. 
 How fresh and modest and lovely she looked then ! 
 And, ah, me ! how twenty years or so have played 
 the mischief with her roses arid lilies ! But that 
 marriage morning of hers was my first realization 
 of what Balzac, the arch-cynic, somewhere calls " a 
 faulty institution tempered by affection." The 
 whole sweet and stately ceremonial makes a charm- 
 ing picture in my memory, one that is framed 
 with macaroons, and viewed through a yellow mist 
 of lemonade. I was painfully though not danger- 
 ously ill on the day which followed Pauline's wed- 
 ding. Good heavens ! how these trifles mingle 
 with larger and sterner events, as we sweep a 
 retrospective eye over our lives ! How many of 
 that blithe patrician wedding-party are gone to-day 
 where it has been said there is neither marrying 
 nor giving in marriage ! For how many years has 
 Scoharie Putnam, the elderly bridegroom, been 
 laid away there in the family vault of St. MarkV 
 in-the-Bowery ! And here am I, actually making 
 a little chronicle of the son and heir who reigns in 
 his stead ! I sometimes think that this panorama 
 we call life used to move along on much slower 
 rollers than now. Perhaps the first perception 
 that we are getting to be middle-aged that the 
 
A NEPHEW OF MINE. 159 
 
 vie de g argon should end, and something more 
 serious begin is embodied in a desire to pluck 
 old Time by the forelock or scythe-handle, which- 
 ever it may be, and assure him that he is really in 
 a devil of a hurry. Only yesterday, at my dressing- 
 mirror, I discovered seven new, assertive, unpro- 
 pitiable gray hairs. Alas ! it seems fitting enough 
 that I should write this avuncular memoir about a 
 grown-up nephew. Soon enough, no doubt, I shall 
 play, in the large, whirling drama of things, a still 
 maturer rdle. 
 
 My sister had been right. Bradford Putnam 
 was certainly immersed in social engagements. It 
 would be hard to find any one more actively dans 
 le mouvement. He is, at the present writing, just 
 three and twenty years old. He has a delicate, 
 downy mustache, whose color may be called an 
 hereditary pink. He is very slender, though not 
 ill made. He has passed about five years of his 
 life in England, where he made an attempt to 
 enter Cambridge, and signally failed. At the age 
 of twenty he was graduated, very low in his class, 
 from Harvard. Rejoining his mother in New York 
 at the age of one and twenty, he promptly became 
 a young gentleman of fashion. He has continued 
 so ever since. 
 
 Notwithstanding his residence in England, he is 
 not at all English. I mean in speech, deportment, 
 personality. In dress he is English throughout. 
 His collar is rigid, lofty, lustrous, uncompromising. 
 It is strange how the soft, beardless cheek which 
 
160 SOCIAL SILHOUETTES. 
 
 comes into incessant contact with this pure and 
 stern ridge of linen, ever manages to preserve itself 
 so nicely unscathed. His clothes fit him as if they 
 were kid instead of cloth. They are always ironed 
 before he puts them on ; and his tall silk hat has a 
 preternatural gloss, created by some deft combina- 
 tion of vaseline and ironing, which is a secret of 
 vital importance between himself and his valet. I 
 think that if you saw upon his vestments a bit of 
 thread as large as the nail of your smallest finger, 
 you would be sure to observe it. I should fear the 
 charge of exaggeration if I were to record the 
 number of his overcoats. In this respect he is pre- 
 pared for every varying mood of our mutable 
 American winter. From saffron-drab with huge 
 pearl buttons, to bottle-green with a hint of seal- 
 skin at the edges to show the luxurious lining 
 inside, they run through many grades of hue and 
 pattern. It is much the same thing with his mul- 
 tiplicity of boots, gloves, shirt-studs, and scarf-pins. 
 He is a child of opulence and of prosperous, 
 capricious, high-stepping comfort. He has his 
 victoria, his brougham, his dog-cart; he has at 
 least eight horses at his command, for driving or 
 riding. Whenever you see him, you notice some- 
 thing that is different about his immediate sur- 
 rounding from what 3^011 noticed when he last 
 entered into your consciousness ; if it is not a new 
 horse, it is a new groom ; if it is not a new watch- 
 chain, it is a new cigar-case ; if it is not a new cane, 
 it is a new pocket-book ; and so on, through vistas, 
 
A NEPHEW OF MINE. 161 
 
 as one might say, of sumptuous and inexhaustible 
 novelty. On all articles of a purely personal sort 
 he is fond of having some costly cachet, his mon- 
 ogram in diamonds, if the bauble permits ; or in 
 twisted gold or silver, if taste thus decrees ; or in 
 some more subtle device of jewelry, wrought both 
 to startle and to delight. 
 
 His manner is reticence and imperturbability in 
 their supreme forms. I am aware of a word, 
 recently coined, which fills, as the struggling news- 
 paper would say, " a needed want." This word, of 
 contested etymology, though widely accepted sig- 
 nificance, does not apply to my nephew. Bradford, 
 with all his circumambient elegance and modish- 
 ness, is emphatically not a "dude." The dude 
 prattles; Bradford is a sphinx of reserve. The 
 dude pauses decorously upon the threshold of vice; 
 Bradford suggests, with a sort of dark dignity, the 
 most comprehensive yet languid corruption. The 
 dude owns to fresh, untried realms of sensation ; 
 Bradford has, in this respect, traversed the known 
 globe, and awaits a new sea to explore, a new 
 isthmus to discover. The dude has unkindled 
 passions; Bradford is an extinct volcano, with a 
 crater that now and then lifts to air no stronger 
 sign of its being than a lazy curl of smoke, 
 cigarette-smoke, if you will. The dude has hopes, 
 even ambitions; Bradford has nothing but a 
 fatigued experience and a spacious despair. The 
 dude still enjoys his youth ; Bradford dimly recol- 
 lects that once, at some remote epoch, h,e was 
 young. 
 
162 SOCIAL SILHOUETTES. 
 
 He is not yet a regular member of the Metro- 
 politan Club, but was made, after his return from 
 Harvard, a six-months' visitor at my own favorite 
 social resort. Being a good many years his senior, 
 and also secretly feeling the mortification that I 
 was his uncle, I once or twice addressed him with 
 w r hat I believed all proper and needful courtesy. 
 His unruffled composure, his weary self-possession, 
 on each occasion, quite disarrayed me. I was pre- 
 pared, of course, to be genial, effusive, even mildly 
 affectionate. I remember so well the first time 
 that I met him in one of the doorways of the 
 Metropolitan. We exchanged greetings. His 
 mother had told me that he was in town. It 
 seemed so queer to think of him at all as grown 
 up ! Some one pointed him out to me ; I had not 
 seen him since he was a little boy, and acted 
 accordingly. 
 
 "Braddy," I said, holding his hand, "you are 
 like your father, but " 
 
 He interrupted me. I think he did it, in some 
 peculiar way, by means of his eyelids. I was con- 
 scious of their quietly haughty droop before I 
 became aware of his voice (placid, a little nasal, 
 much more American than English of intonation), 
 while he said : 
 
 " Look here ! Just drop that. I 'm not called 
 'Braddy.' Have n't been for a hundred years, 
 more or less." 
 
 " But I always used " I began. 
 
 He tapped me on the shoulder. " Of course you 
 
A NEPHEW OF MINE. 163 
 
 always used, old man," he said with a paralyzing 
 smile. 
 
 "Uncle" would not have been agreeable. I 
 was prepared, I may even state that I had nerved 
 myself, to meet "uncle." But "old man" wholly 
 disarmed me by its piercing suggestiveness. 
 
 "I hear you 're no end of a chap among the 
 swells," Bradford now continued. "You must get 
 me about that's a good fellow. I should like to 
 get about a little. Boston 's pretty slow ; I hope 
 there "s more go in New York. Excuse me. Let 
 me look at your stick." 
 
 I mutely handed him my cane. " Good stick," 
 he said, examining it and then he stopped short, 
 handing it back to me. " Beg pardon," he went 
 on. " Thought it was a real blackthorn. 'Tisn't. 
 Dined, old chap?" 
 
 " I have just dined," I said. 
 
 Bradford blew some cigarette-smoke, and con- 
 cealed a yawn or tried to do so behind its 
 transient cloud. 
 
 "Have n't dined yet myself. Dinner just an- 
 nounced. Hope I'll see more of you. Be here 
 later?" 
 
 " Possibly," I articulated. 
 
 My nephew then placidly vanished. One or two 
 more meetings like this were sufficient to inform 
 me how the land would lie between Bradford and 
 myself. 
 
 I am now, on all occasions, equipped for an en- 
 counter with him, Of course, I have been obliged 
 
164 SOCIAL SILHOUETTES. 
 
 to help him in the matter of introductions among 
 what are termed the best people. I had antici- 
 pated something that might at least resemble grat- 
 itude for these services. I have found that my 
 nephew no more dreams of gratitude than he does 
 of pecuniary recompense. He always refers to his 
 mother as "the old lady," and I am her brother. 
 That is all. He goes everywhere now, and he is a 
 conspicuous success. He nods to me in a crowded 
 ball-room ; at a dinner-party, after the ladies have 
 left the dining-room, he will sometimes condescend 
 to join me for a cigarette. His manners have an 
 outside grace and decorum, but beyond this they 
 are simply barbaric. It is amazing with how coldly 
 sardonic a view he regards all society, all woman- 
 kind. 
 
 " Going to dance to-night ? " he said to me one 
 evening at a ball given by the Marchleys in their 
 charming Madison Avenue mansion. 
 
 " I lead the german," I said sombrely, " with 
 Miss Ada Marchley." 
 
 " Shan't dance myself," returned my nephew. 
 
 " No ? " 
 
 "No. Don't like the gang." 
 
 " The what?" I faltered dubiously. 
 
 " Gang. Beastly crowd here. These people 
 don't know anybody to speak of. Of course you 
 understand. I hate these pushers. Sorry I came." 
 
 " I '(1 go then, Bradford," I said. 
 
 " Am going. Lots o' men here. They 've got 
 all the men. But who cares for them? No girls. 
 Have some wine ? " 
 
A NEPHEW OF MINE. 165 
 
 We were standing near the supper-table. " No," 
 I said. He stretched out a hand toward a cham- 
 pagne-bottle as I moved away from him. 
 
 But he never dares to adopt this style with 
 ladies. 
 
 A few nights afterward, I chanced to stand near 
 him in a great crush at the Yorkvilles'. I had an 
 opportunity of observing then what style he does 
 dare to adopt with ladies. I am not sure that it 
 is, after all, much less execrable than the demeanor 
 he assumes toward those of his own sex. 
 
 He had paused before that pretty, Madonna-like 
 blonde, Ethel Van Buskirk. Ethel is poor, and I 
 suppose that hard-faced, black-eyed mother of hers 
 has long ago told her how many thousands a year 
 my nephew will have when my sister dies. 
 
 " You look bored to death," I heard him say. 
 
 Then came poor little Ethel's voice. " O Mr. 
 Putnam ! I hope you don't mean it ! " 
 
 " Do really. Rather becoming, though, for 
 you to look bored." 
 
 Ethel, whose brain is not massive, here gave a 
 sweet trill of laughter. " That 's a great deal nicer 
 than what you just said," she affirmed. 
 
 " Will you talk the german with me ? " now 
 asked my nephew. 
 
 " I I can't," hesitated Ethel, who, as I am cer- 
 tain, loves dancing, like the dear little buoyant 
 debutante that she is. "I I 'm engaged." 
 
 " Who to ? " inquired Bradford. His grammar 
 is a bit of my faithful realism. 
 
166 SOCIAL SILHOUETTES. 
 
 " Mr. Georgy Weehawken," answered Ethel 
 timidly. 
 
 " Oh ! drop him," said my nephew. 
 
 "I I can't possibly. What do you mean, Mr. 
 Putnam ? " 
 
 " Drop him," persisted Bradford glacially. 
 
 " He 's sent me this bouquet. Look ! is u't it 
 lovely? Violets. I 'ni so fond of violets, too. 
 The idea of your asking such a thing ! Why, it 's 
 quite dreadful. What could I say to Mr. Wee- 
 hawken ? " 
 
 " I '11 tell you what to say." 
 
 This was the last that I heard of my nephew's 
 conversation with Miss Van Buskirk. They moved 
 off together immediately afterward arm in arm. 
 But Ethel did not dance the germ an that night. 
 Most probably she " talked it," as the slangy cur- 
 rent phrase goes, with my nephew. 
 
 He is totally without any sense of the hospi- 
 tality anywhere bestowed upon him. When he 
 enters a house of entertainment, it is always with 
 the arrogant understanding that he confers a favor 
 by his presence there. Every sip of wine that he 
 condescends to take, means, in his estimation, a 
 kind of careless compliment paid his host or host- 
 ess. They have invited him ; that he has deigned 
 to notice the invitation by his acceptance is in 
 itself an immense favor. The old gallantry, the 
 time-honored recognition of devoir, of gentlemanly 
 allegiance and submissive suavity, is as foreign to 
 his nature as pliancy would be to an oaken staff. 
 
A NEPHEW OF MINE. 167 
 
 The merely pleasure-seeking element in New York 
 society is condemned to-day by sensible people 
 more severely than ever before. I think that such 
 members of this society as my nephew (cold, ego- 
 tistical, unblessed with a single trait of the sweet 
 and manly duteousness which makes all worthy 
 intercourse between the sexes bloom and thrive) 
 is a potent reason for this growing disfavor. 
 
 He has no recognition, no appreciation, of any 
 inherent natural excellence in a woman. Not long 
 ago he said to me : 
 
 "I see that Miss Jerseyheight is going to be 
 quite a belle." 
 
 " She deserves to be one," I answered. " She is 
 very handsome, and has a most charming disposi- 
 tion." 
 
 " I hear she '11 have a million some day," he said 
 reflectively. " Is it true ? " 
 
 " Possibly," I replied. 
 
 " That explains it." 
 
 And " that," with my nephew, explains count- 
 less things. No one in his creed is genuine. He 
 takes all falsity and insincerity for granted. His 
 pessimism is something as positive and secure as 
 an ice-peak in the arctic zones. All the wisdom 
 of all the sages since Plato could not shake it. It 
 colors the universe for him. You could not sur- 
 prise him by any deed of treachery or meanness or 
 arrant selfishness, and you could not convince him 
 that any deed of worth and nobility was purely 
 disinterested. 
 
168 SOCIAL SILHOUETTES. 
 
 He is wholly without a grain of chivalry. Age, 
 in either male or female, stirs nothing except his 
 disdain. To be old, in his code, is to be more or 
 less ridiculous. " Who 's giving this party, any- 
 how ? " he murmured to me the other night at a 
 certain house. 
 
 " Is it possible you have not yet been presented 
 to the hostess-?" I asked. It was then nearly 
 one o'clock. 
 
 '"No. I looked about when I came in, but the 
 only person I saw who might be Mrs. Rockaway 
 was a thin old woman in blue, standing all alone. 
 I do so hate old women, you know. But to have 
 to talk with one till somebody else comes up and 
 relieves you, that 's simply damnable." 
 
 " Did I not see you talking for a good while 
 with one last night at the Effinghams', Bradford ? " 
 I could not help slyly questioning. 
 
 " Last night ? I ? " he questioned in return. 
 Then he shook his head. " No, I '11 bet you 
 did n't ! " he asserted roundly. But then he under- 
 went a sudden change of expression. " Oh ! " he 
 said again, " I remember." 
 
 " You see I was right," I reminded him. 
 
 " Of course you were," he conceded with a flut- 
 ter of the eyelids and a slight backward motion of 
 the head. " That was a howling old swell, though ; 
 there 's a lot of difference between an old woman 
 like Lady Tenniscourt and a good many others. 
 Thought you knew her," he went on. " I used to 
 know her son Jack when I was at Harrow, and 
 
A NEPHEW OF MINE. 169 
 
 once I staid with him at her house in Surrey. 
 She 's on her way to visit another son out in Man- 
 itoba or Cheyenne, or somewhere; that 's why 
 she 's here now, you know. Her husband 's the 
 eighth or ninth earl : they 're really dreadful 
 swells over in England." 
 
 " I perceive," I said, with tones that were no 
 doubt curt, and a look that was rather hard, " why 
 you condescended to make an old lady, in this one 
 exceptional case, the recipient of your politeness." 
 
 I dare say he had no idea that I meant to deal 
 him a thrust. He certainly regarded me as if he 
 had no such idea. It would have to be a fierce 
 thrust indeed that would disjoint a single hinge in 
 that panoply he wears. Its plates are all of solid 
 self-esteem, and they are riveted together with 
 assurance. 
 
 Philosophers usually insist that people of ele- 
 vated souls and high moral standards get what is 
 best out of life. I should have liked the great 
 Emerson to tell me what he thought about this 
 nephew of mine. Very possibly he would have 
 said some brilliant, wise, philosophic thing, if he 
 had been called upon to give an estimate of Brad- 
 ford's true relations toward society, and the place 
 that he really holds among his fellows. But Brad- 
 ford, who would doubtless not have understood the 
 apothegm even if he had heard it, would have 
 gone on in his career precisely the same. If he is 
 to be pitied he is very loftily ignorant of it. He 
 may be a mote in a sunbeam j but he has got into 
 
170 SOCIAL SILHOUETTES. 
 
 a particularly warm sunbeam, nevertheless, and he 
 has no consciousness whatever of being anything 
 so small as a mote. Profoundly selfish, and rather 
 proud than ignorant of his selfishness, I should 
 like to learn in what respect my nephew is not 
 more happy than many very many virtuous, 
 generous, self-sacrificing men. As I watch him, 
 favored and even petted of fortune, with his worst 
 faults so easily condoned, with his minutest atoms 
 of goodness so charitably magnified, with the 
 world eager to bend upon him its most indulgent 
 smile, with a conscience as pellucid and as flinty as 
 glass, with a heart as calm and as frigid as marble, 
 with nerves that can sensuously tingle to all appe- 
 tite, with an intellect exempt from all troublous 
 problems because well below the level of all note- 
 worthy thought, as I watch him in this unalter- 
 ing and self-contained state of human ease, I am 
 forced to remember the thousands after thousands 
 of his fellow-beings who yearly drop maimed and 
 weary and jaded into their graves. 
 
 Such individuals as my nephew would seem to 
 give every tenet and axiom of ethical philosophy 
 the lie. I do not say that they do; I only say 
 that they seem. We are told that there is always 
 a Nemesis waiting somewhere in the shadow of 
 every life, a Fury, who will one day bind our 
 vices and follies into a merciless scorpion-whip. 
 Meanwhile, where is my nephew's Nemesis? where 
 is his Fury ? He may lose health ; but saints 
 have had to bear that calamity. He may lose his 
 
A NEPHEW OF MINE. 171 
 
 wealth ; but magnanimous reformers of the pur- 
 est type have thus suffered. And meanwhile he 
 drives, rides, dines, and does not even dream of a 
 doubled rose-leaf under his mattress. En effet, he 
 could sleep peacefully over a cobble-stone, he is 
 so blunt and unsensitive, this nephew of mine ! 
 
 What does it all mean ? I ask myself again and 
 again. Are there such absurdly short cuts as this 
 to the long-sought realm of earthly happiness? 
 When the mightiest of our race spend lifetimes in 
 seeking that summum "bonum, does it now and then 
 fall, a willing star, in the lap of some idling syba- 
 rite ? We sneer nowadays at the doctrine of the 
 elect. But how tyrannical is that strange elective 
 agency from which, every hour in the day, Mr. 
 Bradford Putnam reaps so full and unfailing a 
 profit ! We constantly speak of America as a 
 young country, but I am sometimes of the opinion 
 that we are wrong in ever alluding to her youth. 
 Certainly she produces types now and then which 
 would seem the result of hoary centuries. As a 
 confirmation of this judgment, I have only to look 
 at my nephew. Old before his time, without a 
 single republican instinct or impulse, with not a 
 gleam of spontaneity, freshness, or juvenility, he 
 might stand to-day for the latest civilized out- 
 growth of some half- crumbled monarchy, ancient 
 as India, corrupt as France, as patrician as Eng- 
 land, and ( I had almost added) cruel as Russia. 
 
172 SOCIAL SILHOUETTES. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 THE LADY WITH A SON-IN-LAW. 
 
 ABOUT four summers ago, while I was making a 
 rather extended tour of the Catskills, I stopped 
 for several days at a populous country boarding- 
 house quite in the heart of these charming hills. 
 I found myself nearly the sole " transient " guest ; 
 all the others were people who had resolved upon 
 a permanent stay. They were about twenty in all, 
 and a great amount of intimacy existed between 
 them, with the usual revelation of antipathy and 
 enmity as well. They were mostly New-Yorkers ; 
 and yet, as it happened, I had never met any of 
 them before, or even heard their names. Many of 
 the ladies were very refined and even high-bred, 
 and not a few of the men had not only excellent 
 manners but were thoroughly good fellows as 
 well. It struck me that most of them must have 
 been possessed of limited incomes, or they would 
 never have chosen an inn of sojourn where, not- 
 withstanding cloud-shadowed slopes, lovely alter- 
 nations of mist and sunbeam, delightful enchant- 
 ment of purple afternoons and gorgeous twilights, 
 a relentless monotony existed in the way of doughy 
 bread, sanguinary beefsteak, apocryphal coffee, 
 
THE LADY WITS A SON-IN-LAW. 173 
 
 and scandalous butter. I suppose I would not 
 have thought of their worldly wealth if I had not 
 also thought of their unknown social places, and 
 told myself what a farce it meant when we heeded 
 the question, here in America, of who was or who 
 was not " in society." The whole absurd scheme 
 of our transatlantic aristocracy had never met me 
 in such candid colors as it did there, at this obscure 
 Catskill boarding-house. There was Miss Howson, 
 who had a face of dainty freshness, and dressed in 
 cool, modish muslins ; there was Miss Thompson, 
 who painted leaves and flowers prettily, and sang 
 sweet, silvery songs of an evening about Killar- 
 ney's lakes and fells, and the lass who married her 
 own love, her own love, and well, I forget the 
 graceful refrain of the song, more shame to me ; 
 there was Miss Pansy Trott, who was clever and 
 had been graduated at Yassar, and thought that 
 although the great modern thinkers were men of 
 grand intellect, their lack of a sound spiritual faith 
 was gravely to be deplored ; there was ethereal, 
 slim-handed Miss Clingley, who could have kept 
 the classic suitors waiting much longer, I am sure, 
 than Penelope did, with her marvellous needle- 
 work effects in every tint and design (I remember 
 once offending her by asking her whether she 
 did n't think she could do the balcony scene from 
 " Romeo and Juliet," with a moon of white sewing- 
 silk and a balcony of brown braid) ; there was 
 airy, piquante Miss Tinkle, who could say saucy 
 things with such a winsome pout, and flirt in cor- 
 
174 SOCIAL SILHOUETTES. 
 
 ners of piazzas with such a mundane innocence ; 
 there was, in short, a bevy of nice girls, who dif- 
 fered only from the nice girls whom I had met 
 where fashion and snobbery reigned and tyran- 
 nized by no discoverable trait except their freedom 
 from a certain silly and irritating exclusiveness. 
 Every one of them had the same right to call her- 
 self " swell," and " good form," and " in the proper 
 set," which the Misses Spuytenduyvil and Amster- 
 dam and Hackensack possess, since it is obvious 
 enough that the slightest patrician claim, not 
 founded upon mere vulgar wealth, is mean and 
 cheap in a country whose very bulwark and safe- 
 guard should be an avoidance of European imita- 
 tions. And yet these young ladies put forward no 
 such claim, and were all the more charming because 
 they did not. I often think that it is just such 
 girls as these who make our country endurable for 
 a man of mind and sincerity. If all our young 
 women were like the haughty and yet hare-brained 
 minxes whom one is so apt to meet in New York 
 ball-rooms, Heaven knows how many sensible 
 American bachelors would make a determined 
 stand against matrimony ! 
 
 The men were less engaging, as a body ; but some 
 of them I found most companionable and attractive. 
 They were rarely versed the younger ones, I 
 mean in those mighty mysteries of the toilet 
 which make it a crime to wear a tall hat with a 
 sack-coat, or to don a low one with a double- 
 breasted frock-coat. I don't believe that any of 
 
THE LADY WITH A SON-IN-LAW. 175 
 
 them knew when it was a dark sin to appear in 
 gloves, and when it was a shining act of probity 
 to be without gloves. A minority of them were 
 engrossed in matters more trivial, like the search 
 for botanical specimens, or the desire to study 
 geological formations, or the aim to spend a vaca- 
 tion from less congenial pursuits in solid and 
 profitable reading. One of them was a pale, slen- 
 der fellow of about six and twenty, who had made 
 a rather fair literary success, considering his age, 
 by a series of articles in a well-known New York 
 journal. His name was Reuben Rodd, and he 
 aimed to be a novelist. I think he would have 
 been a good one if he had lived ; but even then he 
 was consumptive, and I saw his death the following 
 year recorded in the very newspaper which was at 
 this time publishing his bright, able sketches. 
 
 But Reuben Rodd was fearfully sensitive to the 
 mosquito-stings of that multitudinous band of 
 scribblers which we call "the critics." Even then, 
 as I have said, he was ill ; and I don't doubt that 
 these vicious human insects, hatched by the sun- 
 shine of his brief success, bit and harassed him 
 unto his death. They kill a weak life some- 
 times : it is only the man of good health who can 
 flatten them into extinction with a few lusty slaps 
 of his palm. Poor Reuben, when we first got to 
 know each other, was suffering from the assault of 
 one of those Xew York comic journals which are 
 always coming and going in this country, and 
 which can never live here, because when not vul- 
 garly personal they are stupidly tame. 
 
176 SOCIAL SILHOUETTES. 
 
 Through the young man's distress I came to 
 have long chats with his excellent mother, a widow, 
 Mrs. Rodd. She was a little less than forty, with 
 a fair, bright, amiable face, and a tendency toward 
 stoutness. She was very fond of Reuben, as she 
 was very fond, also, of her remaining child, Re- 
 becca, aged about sixteen. I thought Rebecca, 
 with her folded hands, her really perfect com- 
 plexion, her bashfulness, and her unquestionable 
 simper, not a little depressing. But I liked Mrs. 
 Rodd, who seemed to me typically an American 
 matron,. with assertiveness yet with modesty, and 
 with self-assurance yet with self-respect. 
 
 "I feel so for Reuben ! " she said to me one even- 
 ing. " Of course, being his mother, Mr. Manhat- 
 tan, I can't help that. But I think it is so horrid 
 for that little comic journal to have called his 
 work 'trash ' ! and I 'm sure I should, think so if 
 I were not his mother." 
 
 "I am not his mother, Mrs. Rodd," I replied, 
 " and I think it horrid too. I am not an author 
 myself; but I can't imagine any author, who has 
 the least belief in his own ability (without which 
 he should not write at all), reading or noticing 
 anything the droves of pitiful reviewers may 
 write about it. All modern so-called literary jour- 
 nals are mediums of advertisement. In America 
 this is so true that not one of those which now 
 exist could live three months without the Messrs. 
 This advertised their new patent sewing-machine 
 there, or the Messrs. That their latest perfumery 
 
THE LADY WITH A SON-IN-LAW. 177 
 
 or piano. The very condition of the being of these 
 organs puts a premium upon injustice. This little 
 comic journal, which so hurts your son by reviling 
 . his work, feeds its little life through two means, 
 insult and advertisement. It will die of its own 
 poison and its commercial enterprise." 
 
 "And so will my son die, I fear," sighed Mrs. 
 Rodd. He did die, in a year afterward, as I have 
 recorded. 
 
 But Mrs. Rodd did not die ; and, although nearly 
 three years elapsed between the time I parted from 
 her there in the Catskills and the period of our 
 next meeting, I found myself repeatedly recalling 
 her genial face and presence. I never met her in 
 my New York goings and comings. Yet somehow 
 I never forgot her. She was not an intellectual 
 woman in any sense. But she was full of hearti- 
 ness, of spontaneity, of unaffected charm. She 
 had impressed me as being one of those people 
 who are thoroughly satisfied with life, because the 
 blood runs warm, the heart beats free yet with 
 temperate strokes, the digestion is exempt from all 
 retardment, the brain is well swept of all illusory 
 cobwebs. I fancy that I liked her because she put 
 forth no effort to make me do so, but somehow 
 took for granted that I naturally would like her. 
 She was so healthful, so normal, so unassailed by 
 caprices or moods ! Her daughter Rebecca had 
 seemed to me a milky-complexioned nonentity, and 
 nothing more. And I am afraid that I had quite 
 forgotten she had a daughter, until I received a 
 
178 SOCIAL SILHOUETTES. 
 
 card one day to the wedding of Miss Rebecca 
 Rodd and Mr. Faulkner Castlegarden. 
 
 Of course, I knew the Castlegardens. There are 
 always about ten or twelve of them actively in 
 society, and their name is legion. I could not go 
 to the wedding of this particular scion: some 
 engagement or other averting event occurred I 
 do not recall just what. A little later, however, I 
 learned that the Castlegardens had collectively 
 rather frowned upon this match. It was considered 
 by them a misalliance ; it was not the sort of way 
 that a Castlegarden had usually married. I remem- 
 bered one who was reported to have married his 
 cook, and another who wedded considerably worse ; 
 but I refrained from reviving these melancholy 
 family annals. The Castlegardens have always 
 been noted for ignoring their own faults superbly. 
 I think that surely ten of their male members must 
 lie prematurely in that big vault up in Westches- 
 ter County, with drink as the sole and certain 
 cause. But the Castlegardens never call it drink. 
 Hereditary gout sounds so much better! And, 
 indeed, I rather agree with them there. But you 
 can't help smiling sometimes, when you hear 
 them mention this little trouble as though it were 
 one of the quarterings on their escutcheon. Miss 
 Rodd had certainly not brought her lord a fortune. 
 I suppose this formed the major reason why she 
 was held an undesirable bride for Faulkner. But 
 as I thought of Mrs. Rodd, with her wholesome, 
 unjaundiced views of life, I assured myself that 
 
THE LADY WITH A SON-IN-LAW. 179 
 
 any of the Castlegardens who attempted to handle 
 her without gloves would run the risk of burnt 
 fingers. 
 
 Perhaps six months after her daughter's marriage, 
 I met her at an afternoon reception, one of those 
 crushes that are bedlams of empty chatter, besides 
 seeming as though above their doorways had been 
 placed some Dantesque legend, like, "He who 
 enters here leaves average intelligence behind." 
 The affair had been given by a certain Mrs. Tril- 
 lington, a lady whose origin is nebulous, and whose 
 success, though beyond dispute a fact, always has 
 seemed to me extraordinary. Mrs. Trillington is 
 artificiality itself. " I am so delighted to see you, 
 my dear Mr. Manhattan ! " she will exclaim to me 
 while grasping my hand, and at the same time she 
 will be peering over her shoulder at some one else. 
 Her hand-shake rarely goes with her glance; to 
 receive both simultaneously, you must indeed be 
 fortunate. 
 
 To-day I rather copied Mrs. Trillington's divided 
 method of salutation, and found myself looking 
 across my own shoulder at Mrs. Rodd. She was 
 charming when I reclaimed acquaintance with her; 
 but she was charming in such an altered way ! I 
 could not account for it : it was so different from 
 what I had expected. She was still stout ; I fan- 
 cied that she was by some degrees stouter than 
 when I had last met her. The smile which I had 
 liked still beamed about her full, calm lips. But 
 she was not the Mrs. Rodd whom I had remem- 
 bered and expected. 
 
180 SOCIAL SILHOUETTES. 
 
 She shook my hand quite warmly. " I 'm so 
 sorry," she said, "that you did not see my Rebecca 
 married ! You did not. Don't deny that you did 
 not, for I am sure perfectly sure about . the 
 matter." 
 
 "You are right, Mrs. Rodd," I answered. "I 
 wanted so much to be at the wedding, but " 
 
 "No 4 buts,' " she broke in. "You didn't come, 
 and that is the end of it. I suppose you heard" 
 and her voice softened noticeably " about poor 
 Reuben's death ? " 
 
 " Yes," I said, " I heard. It was most unfortu- 
 nate." 
 
 " Poor Reuben ! He passed away very quietly 
 at the last moment. By the by, have you met my 
 son-in-law, Mr. Faulkner Castlegarden?" 
 
 "Not yet," I replied. 
 
 "Come and dine with us this evening," said 
 Mrs. Rodd. " A little informal dinner, you know. 
 Can you come ? " 
 
 "Yes, thanks," I said. 
 
 I went. The dinner startled me. Faulkner 
 Castlegarden appeared at it. He appeared nearly 
 drunk. He was very civil to me ; but his red face 
 and his thick speech told me the truth at once. 
 Mrs. Rodd and her daughter gave no sign of the 
 real truth. They both ate what was before them 
 in quiet unconcern. Faulkner drooped and almost 
 slept during dinner. As soon as decency would 
 permit, I left him, and joined the ladies in the 
 drawing-room, with hard thoughts about him as a 
 fat, drowsy, and incoherent host. 
 
THE LADY WITH A SON-IN-LAW. 181 
 
 "I hope you had a nice chat with dear Faulkner," 
 said Mrs. Rodd as I approached her after my 
 escape. 
 
 " Oh, yes ! " I answered, lying conventionally. "I 
 think he will come in soon. He 's a bit sleepy, 
 I fancy." 
 
 Mrs. Rodd and her daughter both laughed. 
 
 " Dear Faulkner ! " said his mother-in-law. " He 
 may be wanting a nap, poor fellow ! Do you know, 
 Mr. Manhattan," she added, "that one thing is 
 really a fa'ct about all the Castlegardens ? They 
 all require a nap after dinner. I 've noticed it in 
 his cousin, Audubon, and his second-cousin, 
 Lothrop, and his what is the relationship, Re- 
 becca, of Clyde Castlegarden, my dear ? " 
 
 Rebecca shook her head reflectively, and did not 
 answer. Mrs. Rodd did not seem to require an 
 answer, however. I thought, as I regarded her, 
 that I had never seen a woman so completely 
 changed. All her old calm, secure independence 
 was altered. There was something tremulous and 
 insecure in her demeanor. 
 
 " You know," she said to me, resuming her pre- 
 vious discourse, "that these Castlegardens are a 
 very remarkable family." 
 
 "Yes? "I replied. ' 
 
 " They are all very aristocratic. I have n't ever 
 thought much on this subject, Mr. Manhattan. I 
 don't suppose that I ever really knew anything at 
 all about it until Rebecca married a Castlegarden. 
 I imagined that there was no social good, better, 
 
182 SOCIAL SILHOUETTES. 
 
 best, don't you know, until my eyes were opened 
 by Faulkner's courtship. And since then I 've 
 seen so much ! I 've seen that there are grades 
 and differences in society. The Castlegardens, 
 you know, are a great family for us to marry into. 
 We, the Rodds, were never very much, to be really 
 frank with you. I was only a poor Indiana girl be- 
 fore I married my late husband. I am very thankful 
 that Rebecca has done so well. Of course, I never 
 dreamed, Mr. Manhattan, when I met you there 
 at Blanford's boarding-house in the Catskills, that 
 you were one of the real old Knickerbocker peo- 
 ple ! But you are and Faulkner says you are 
 and that, of course, settles it. We met, you know, 
 at Mrs. Trillington's. I don't know anything 
 about her. Rebecca and I don't know much yet ; 
 I mean who exactly is who. But Faulkner tells 
 us he directs us ; he 's a Castlegarden, you know, 
 and of course the Castlegardens are just the very 
 highest. I leave my cards everywhere now, with 
 Rebecca, and I find that it 's just the same as if I 
 had left them alone by myself. All the old Knick- 
 erbocker families call on us and recognize us. 
 Rebecca did a good thing. They all treat me 
 politely because of Tier. You never said anything 
 about yourself, there in the Catskills, Mr. Manhat- 
 tan. You never gave us an idea that you were 
 swell) that you belonged among the good old 
 families. You seem so different now ! I can 
 scarcely realize that you 're the same being. But 
 Faulkner has told us. And " 
 
THE LADY WITH A SON-IX-LAW. 183 
 
 I interrupted Mrs. Rodd here. I stretched forth 
 a hand and took her own. " My dear Mrs. Rodd," 
 I murmured, " you are so changed ! " 
 
 " Changed ! " she repeated. 
 
 " Yes," I pursued. " From the candid, liberal, 
 untrammelled woman whom I met that summer in 
 the Catskills." 
 
 She perceptibly recoiled. Her sunny brow dark- 
 ened. She looked at me as if she wanted to 
 quarrel with me. 
 
 " How am I different ? " she queried annoyedly. 
 
 " You have a son-in-law," I replied with untold 
 impudence. 
 
 She tossed her head. The gesture was so unlike 
 the Mrs. Rodd of the Catskills, the Mrs. Rodd 
 whom no folly of caste or vaunted superiority of 
 position could assail, the Mrs. Rodd who had 
 loved her dying son so fondly, and had so hated 
 the gnats and gad-flies that had set their little 
 stings into his failing life. 
 
 " I have a son-in-law," she said with vast pride 
 of tone, " who is a Castlegarden." 
 
 I laughed. I think I laughed cruelly. I could 
 not help it. It seemed to me so worthy of scorch- 
 ing contempt. All the comprehension of how ill 
 all humanity stands any great tests appeared con- 
 centrated in that one last sentence of Mrs. Rodd's. 
 What she had once been to me flashed upon me in 
 swift retrospect. What she had now become, in 
 her cringing before gross idols, filled me with a 
 just sorrow. 
 
184 SOCIAL SILHOUETTES. 
 
 " You liave a son-in-law," I said, " who is drunk 
 witli wine." 
 
 She gave a great start. " How dare you ! " she 
 cried. 
 
 " This is how you are changed," I pursued 
 relentlessly. " This is how you have bettered your 
 place and fame from what they both were when we 
 iet in the Catskills, when you spoke to me 
 with tears of the dead boy whom those cruel 
 adventurers of the pen helped to slay. This is 
 how you have bettered yourself, you and the 
 daughter who crouches yonder in tremor, in dis- 
 tress. You have a son-in-law. You have achieved 
 something. You have a son-in-law, beyond 
 doubt." 
 
 Mrs. Rodd's eyes flashed. " My son-in-law will 
 answer your insolence ! " she cried. 
 
 " He can't," I said quietly. " He is drunk in 
 the dining-room." 
 
 It is really wonderful that Mrs. Rodd and I 
 should still be good friends. But we somehow are. 
 And yet she still stays loyal to her son-in-law. I 
 meet her constantly. I am sometimes so near her 
 that I can hear her refer to him at receptions, I 
 mean, and at an occasional large ball. But she 
 always refers to him with respect. She is always, 
 to my mind (regretfully and pathetically), the 
 lady with a son-in-law. 
 
THE YOUNG MAN WHO IMAGINES. 185 
 
 XV. 
 
 THE YOUNG MAN WHO IMAGINES. 
 
 ONE day at the Metropolitan Club I became 
 conscious of Mr. J. Morton Studwell. I use this 
 phrase because, although I had met and even 
 spoken with the gentleman before, his personality 
 had not in any way appealed to me. Perhaps I 
 had observed that he was dark and slim, yet I am 
 not sure that I had made either observation. But 
 on the day now mentioned I had talked with him, 
 and been somewhat attracted by him. 
 
 His appearance was very gentlemanly and allur- 
 ing. He spoke with a low, musical voice. He 
 had extremely white hands, which he used very 
 often in stroking a rather copious black mustache. 
 He was not a member of the Metropolitan, but had 
 been introduced there as a visitor by an elderly 
 club man who rarely left domestic quarters. He 
 had been living for several years abroad, though a 
 native of Charleston, S. C. He spoke enough like 
 an Englishman not to be taken for an American, 
 and yet he had no trace of salient British man- 
 nerism. 
 
 " I find everything very new and strange here," 
 he told me with a gentle, suave air of confidence. 
 
186 SOCIAL SILHOUETTES. 
 
 " I lived a good while abroad, you know prin- 
 cipally in Paris. The life there is so different ! " 
 
 " Oh, very different ! " I assented. 
 
 " One must breathe the true French social atmos- 
 phere," he continued, " to thoroughly enjoy Paris. 
 One must get to know the Faubourg St. Germain 
 people, and all that." 
 
 "I suppose you know them, Mr. Studwell?" 
 
 He smiled. He had quite a sweet smile, and I 
 fancied that it now wore a gleam of courteous 
 pity. 
 
 " Many of them are my warm personal friends," 
 he said. 
 
 " And shall you remain here in America perma- 
 nently ? " I questioned. 
 
 He lifted his eyebrows a little, and slightly 
 shrugged his shoulders. " I must remain for the 
 present. I have no alternative. My stay con- 
 cerns a well, Mr. Manhattan, a protracted law- 
 suit about certain inherited property." 
 
 I felt that this was a magnificent way of silen- 
 cing me, and refrained from asking a single other 
 question. There was certainly something impres- 
 sive, even to the most republican mind, about a 
 young gentleman who had torn himself from the 
 aristocratic circles of the Faubourg St. Germain 
 for reasons which concerned a litigated inheri- 
 tance. 
 
 I soon discovered that in his quiet, modest way, 
 he had not a few thrilling experiences to relate. 
 He had fought a duel in Belgium with the fiery 
 
THE YOUNG MAN WHO IMAGINES. 187 
 
 young Due de D , and received a rather severe 
 
 wound. A fiery young count would have startled 
 me far less than a duke of similar temper. We are 
 always hearing of duels with counts, but a ducal en- 
 counter carries with it to the American mind a sense 
 of distinction and rarity. Then, again, I learned 
 that Mr. Stud well had saved the life of Prince 
 Colorma, his dear friend, when the yacht of the lat- 
 ter had been terribly jeopardized in a squall off 
 Guernsey. The prince had given his friend an 
 amethyst ring set in silver. "It is somewhere 
 among my traps, that ring," said Mr. Studwell in 
 careless comment upon the gift. " It 's exceedingly 
 pretty; I would not part with it for anything; but 
 I don't wear it, because I hate all except the plain- 
 est jewelry." He confided to me, also, that he 
 had taken active part with the French during the 
 siege of Paris. " My wound there," he proceeded, 
 "was a serious one. The bullet came very near 
 my heart. I was carried off by that excellent 
 friend of mine, the Viscount Cluny, covered with 
 blood and in an unconscious condition. My life 
 hung by a thread for weeks afterward. But I am 
 rather tough; I pulled through, as the English 
 say." 
 
 These tales of hair-breadth 'scapes were de- 
 livered with such hesitating reluctance that I often 
 felt as if I had unduly stimulated and persuaded 
 their narration. I never dreamed of doubting 
 their absolute authenticity. To do so would have 
 struck me as the rankest heresy. They appeared 
 
188 SOCIAL SILHOUETTES. 
 
 so utterly apart from the least vainglorious vaunt- 
 ing! Mr. Studwell never seemed, as the phrase 
 goes, to sound his own horn. What he sounded 
 was more like an unpretentious little flageolet, and 
 at the earnest invitation of myself. 
 
 His term of sojourn at the club expired. For 
 more than a fortnight I completely lost sight of 
 him. We had not bid each other any formal fare- 
 wells. I had failed to see him for a day or two 
 before his enforced departure from the Metro- 
 politan. 
 
 But one evening I chanced to meet him in the 
 hall of the Fifth Avenue Hotel. It instantly 
 occurred to me that he looked dejected, sombre, 
 depressed; but his bright smile soon dissipated 
 this idea. " With your charming club," he said, 
 " I wonder that you should drop in here." 
 
 "Now and then I do so," I answered. "The 
 Fifth Avenue Hotel attracts a man sometimes as 
 he passes by it. It has such a cosmopolitan sort 
 of glitter ! One is visited, at special early hours in 
 the evening, by a fancy that he may meet here 
 some long-lost European acquaintance." 
 
 "But one so seldom does," said Mr. Studwell 
 with a soft, full smile, that showed his white teeth 
 under his dark, drooping mustache. " My apart- 
 ments are not far from here, and so I occasionally 
 drop in." 
 
 "My apartments," pronounced by his placid 
 lips, gave me a feeling that he had just referred to 
 something of especial elegance and luxury. 
 
THE YOUNG MAN WHO IMAGINES. 189 
 
 "Do you live very near?" I inquired with a 
 sense of rather reckless interrogation even while I 
 spoke. 
 
 "Just in Twenty-Fourth Street," was the reply. 
 And here he laughed, with an upward momentary 
 wave of both hands. " To tell the truth, until my 
 affairs are settled, I am living rather obscurely." 
 
 "Obscurely! " I repeated, catching at the word. 
 "You mean that you are seeing very few people?" 
 
 "Not just that not just that," he murmured, 
 scanning the marble floor as we strolled forth side 
 by side toward the great populous doorway of the 
 hotel. " I mean that my lodgings are a bit mod- 
 est, and primitive. That is all. To tell the 
 truth, I had a fancy for something plain and simple 
 in this way. I am a fellow of rather odd caprices. 
 I sometimes grow tired of too prosperous living, 
 and long for a change. Can you explain the feel- 
 ing? I confess that I cannot. It occasionally 
 sweeps over me, for no apparent reason." 
 
 We were now in the open street, walking north- 
 ward in the direction of those massed irregular 
 buildings, the Albemaiie and the Hoffman House, 
 two structures that I have always thought must 
 interblend their architectural identities to the ex- 
 tent of forgetting which is which. "I suppose 
 your caprice is like all others," I said. " It is not, 
 from its very nature, to be accounted for. How- 
 ever, I begin to think this New York craze for 
 household decoration an extremely tiresome af- 
 fair." 
 
190 SOCIAL SILHOUETTES. 
 
 Mr. Stud well laid his hand upon my arm. His 
 eyes sparkled as they met mine in the rather dubi- 
 ous lamplight. "You express my own opinions 
 to the letter " he exclaimed. " Nothing is more 
 wearisome than this inundation of decorative ap- 
 pointments. One gets positively sick of Eastlake 
 furniture and mediaeval tapestry. The whole 
 thing affects me, at times, like a feverish disease. 
 I find myself yearning for a cane-bottomed chair 
 and a plain unembellished interior." 
 
 " And you have practically indulged your prej- 
 udice ? " I laughed. 
 
 " At present I am doing so," he answered. He 
 gave a quick start a moment later, as though some 
 new thought had struck him. We were now on 
 the corner of Twenty-Fourth Street and Broadway. 
 Once more he laid his hand upon my arm. " Do 
 you mind witnessing how Spartan I have be- 
 come ? " he said. " My lodgings are but a step 
 from here. You have told me that you like to 
 study human nature, Mr. Manhattan. Pray, study 
 me in a new phase for a few minutes, and after- 
 ward reflect at your leisure." 
 
 I was interested, and still perfectly unsuspi- 
 cious. I accompanied Mr. Studwell into a certain 
 house not far away. He opened the door with a 
 latch-key, and we ascended three flights of stairs. 
 I concede that the chamber into which he pres- 
 ently ushered me was a sharp surprise, notwith- 
 standing all my friend's preparatory admissions. 
 Jt contained a small bed in one corner, a gaunt, 
 
THE YOUNG MAN WHO IMAGINES. 191 
 
 dingy wardrobe in another, and an effete wooden 
 washstand in still another. Its carpet was faded 
 and threadbare. Its chairs were not cane-bottomed, 
 but upholstered in some sort of frayed and dis- 
 colored chintz that would not ill have suited the 
 back apartment of a Seventh Avenue pawnbroker. 
 I soon perceived that my host was intently watch- 
 ing me, as my amazed look comprehended all these 
 shabby details. 
 
 " You are astounded ! " he exclaimed, sinking 
 into one of the faded chairs. " Of course, I knew 
 that you would be. I can't tell you how I enjoy 
 your surprise ! The most ridiculous scene took 
 place between myself and my valet when I decided 
 upon renting this room. I have had Oswald in 
 my employ for a number of years. He is a most 
 faithful fellow, is that Oswald of mine. I found 
 him in Vienna ; the Grand Duke Frederick recom- 
 mended him highly, and so I took him. He thinks 
 this caprice of mine something horrible." 
 
 I refrained from indorsing the views of the 
 absent Oswald. The grace, grandeur, and ease of 
 Mr. Studwell's manner still disarmed in me the 
 least suspicion. He looked, acted, and spoke as a 
 being so utterly different from this unwholesome 
 environment, that I readily accepted the belief of 
 his performing, at present, a sort of whimsical mas- 
 querade! And the oddity of such a proceeding 
 rather captivated me than otherwise. It appeared 
 to be such a perfectly gentlemanly piece of pictur- 
 esqueness ! It struck such a new note in the hum- 
 
192 SOCIAL SILHOUETTES. 
 
 drum drone of things ! Perhaps my mood was just 
 then of the properly receptive kind. One does n't 
 live in New York permanently, as a rule, without 
 having moments of melancholy irritation that Fifth 
 Avenue hould bisect Twenty-Third Street at so 
 positive a right angle. The element of fancy is 
 wholly lacking from our daily existence. I felt 
 almost grateful to Mr. Studwell, as I looked about 
 the prosaic plainness of his apartment, and realized 
 with what a romantic glamour he had suddenly 
 clothed it. 
 
 Not long afterward, however, my state of amused 
 acquiescence underwent a slight shock. I am not 
 usually given to observing the attire of men or 
 women either at all closely. Not to know what 
 your friends wear, I have generally considered a 
 proof that they are well dressed. But as I passed 
 from Mr. Studwell's chamber the light of the adja- 
 cent hall struck in an oblique way the sleeve of 
 one uplifted arm. I could not fail to notice that 
 this sleeve was glazed in the unmistakable manner 
 of a coat the worse for time. Could it be that I 
 was merely confronted by another phase of the 
 young gentleman's caprice? Had he chosen to 
 robe himself in shabby garments because bored by 
 the spruceness and smartness of modern fashion- 
 able attire ? 
 
 " By the way," he said to me a little later, as we 
 stood together on the pavements, not far from his 
 abode, "is it so very difficult to gain admission 
 into your club, the Metropolitan ? " 
 
THE YOUNG MAN WHO IMAGINES, 193 
 
 "Decidedly," I answered, laughing, "for the 
 reason that over three hundred candidates are now 
 waiting admission." 
 
 "Ah yes," mused Mr. Studwell, looking down 
 and stroking his mustache. " It was very much 
 the same, I remember, at both the Reform in 
 London and the Jockey Club in Paris, just before 
 I joined them." 
 
 "You are fortunate to be a member of two 
 such excellent clubs," I replied with a good deal 
 of congratulatory fervor. The forlorn bedroom 
 and the shiny coat-sleeve once more seemed like 
 the agreeable proofs of a dainty and diverting lit- 
 tle escapade. I forgot that my credulity had been 
 for an instant clouded. " If you are to remain in 
 New York only a year or so," I resumed, " perhaps 
 you might care to be made what we call a six- 
 months' visitor at the Metropolitan. In that case 
 you would be balloted for without regard to those 
 seeking regular membership. I would gladly be 
 your proposer, if you so desired." 
 
 He thanked me quite warmly, and with that air 
 of exquisite breeding which accompanied all his 
 most trifling acts. He accepted my proposition, 
 and it was settled between us that I should at once 
 propose his name as that of a six-months' visitor. 
 Just as I held out my hand to him in farewell that 
 evening, he said to me with a genial little laugh : 
 " I am going to ask you for a cigarette, my dear 
 Manhattan. Do you chance to have one ? " 
 
 I echoed his laugh. " A few days ago," was my 
 
194 SOCIAL SILHOUETTES. 
 
 reply, " I could have supplied you with a fat pack- 
 age of them. But for five good days past I have 
 renounced them as vilely pernicious. Perhaps 
 when my throat becomes even moderately well 
 again, I may be rash enough to resume their use. 
 That, I find, is my usual stupid course." 
 
 " Ah ! " said Mr. Studwell, " then you have not 
 dealt in oaths, like myself ? " 
 
 " Dealt in oaths ! " I repeated. 
 
 He nodded with mock solemnity. "I have 
 never suffered from cigarette-smoking until I came 
 here. There is something in this climate, I fancy, 
 which makes the practice especially harmful. 
 About a fortnight since, I promised myself that I 
 would not spend for a year another centime I 
 mean another dime in purchasing the wicked 
 weed. But feeling considerably recovered from 
 its ill effects, I now deplore my vow. Really, I am 
 going to request that you will buy me, Mr. Man- 
 hattan, with your own money (ah ! there is the 
 difficult point, showing my state of shameless des- 
 peration), a package of well, of any brand you 
 please. All brands are alike to me now. I have 
 reached that reckless condition when one has no 
 preferences." 
 
 His manner, while he thus spoke, was keenly 
 humorous. The best comedy always conveys, I 
 have decided, an impression of sincerity. We 
 laugh the most over the absurd troubles of our 
 fellow-creatures when we are convinced of their 
 being genuine, in spite of their absurdity. 
 
THE YOUNG MAN WHO IMAGINES. 195 
 
 " You shall have your cigarettes purchased for 
 you," I responded, " provided you tell me your 
 favorite brand. Yonder I see a tobacconist's win- 
 dow. Come, now, Mr. Studwell. I have an en- 
 gagement at half-past nine, and it wants twenty 
 minutes past that hour. My resolution is unalter- 
 able, like your vow. " 
 
 He told me his favorite brand ; and presently, 
 with suppressed laughter at the mock-gravity of 
 his thankful expression, I handed him the desired 
 cigarettes. We soon afterward parted, but not 
 until I had assured him of my earnest co-operation 
 with regard to his proposed club visitorship. 
 
 "What a quaintly attractive fellow he is!" I 
 thought, as I sped to keep my engagement. " How 
 charming to meet a man out of the old beaten 
 conventional ruts ! His long foreign residence has 
 given him this air, half of the grand ennuyg, half 
 of the genial gentleman. Of course that cigarette 
 business was mere posing. But how delightfully 
 he poses ! There is no ostentation about it ; it is 
 such a deliciously sincere sort of humbug ! After 
 I get him back into the Metropolitan, I shall narrate 
 before his face this nonsensical boutade about the 
 wretched room in Twenty-Fourth Street." 
 
 Two days later I received a brief note from 
 Brockholst Hyde, requesting me to call upon him 
 for urgent reasons. I knew Brockholst Hyde but 
 slightly. His very prominent position in social cir- 
 cles could not, however, have escaped me. I went to 
 his fine Madison Avenue residence the next morn- 
 
196 SOCIAL SILHOUETTES 
 
 ing with a sense of wonderment at the summons. 
 I was conducted to the library of this gentleman, 
 a beautiful apartment, appointed in ebony and 
 silver, with row after row of books along its walls, 
 and a green carpet, not only resembling moss, but 
 so deadening to the footstep that such illusion was 
 almost perfect. 
 
 " I was an old friend of your father's, Mr. Man- 
 hattan," said Brockholst Hyde, rising feebly from 
 an immense chair to greet me. " I am very glad 
 indeed to see his son. My physicians of late have 
 forbidden me nearly all society. But I have some- 
 what daringly made an exception in your case." 
 
 It struck me, while I looked at the gentleman, 
 that a greater Physician than any his own wealth 
 would have power to employ might soon veto for 
 him society of every description. His face was 
 haggard from evident illness. The . hand which 
 motioned me to seat myself at his side trembled 
 from excessive debility. 
 
 "You must pardon me, Mr. Manhattan," my 
 host began as soon as we were both seated, "for 
 requesting that this interview shall not be pro- 
 longed. Physical reasons imperatively command 
 me to make it as short as possible. I have recently 
 heard that you have proposed Mr. John Morton 
 Stud well as a six-months' visitor at the Metro- 
 politan Club. I learned it from my friend, Mr. 
 Preston, whom you doubtless know, and who is 
 good enough to drop in upon me during my hours 
 of illness. Now, I must beg you to cancel this 
 
THE YOUNG MAN WHO IMAGINES. 19? 
 
 whole matter. I must beg you to treat it as if it 
 had never been. Not very long ago, as you are 
 aware, I introduced Mr. Studwell into the Metro^ 
 politan. I did so foolishly and rashly. His father, 
 and I had known each other intimately in past 
 years. I could not help having a fondness for 
 the son, though aware that he had already spent a 
 handsome fortune, inherited from his mother, at 
 the gaming-tables of Europe. For his dead father's 
 sake I have done everything to help, to rehabilitate 
 Morton. But he is incorrigible, he is not to be 
 aided. Every dollar that I have supplied him 
 with has been spent in gambling-dens here. That 
 is his only vice, that and lying." 
 
 "Lying!" I faltered. 
 
 " Oh, yes ! But perhaps the word is, after all, 
 severe. I read an article by a certain famous 
 authority on brain-diseases, not long ago, and dis- 
 covered that a morbid tendency to mendacious 
 statement was a form of well-known insanity. If 
 that be fact, Morton Studwell should go to an 
 asylum forthwith. Almost nothing that he says is 
 actual truth. His patrician European friends 
 princes, dukes, et cetera are all a complete myth. 
 He has never had the least real position abroad. 
 I have talked with him ; I have waylaid him ; I 
 have caught him up; and I now conclude that 
 his imagination is in the most abnormal state. 
 There is the precise necessary word, 'imagina- 
 tion.' I verily believe that he is not a culpable 
 falsifier." 
 
198 SOCIAL SILHOUETTES. 
 
 " Not culpable, Mr. Hyde ! " I exclaimed indig- 
 nantly. " Not culpable, when he told me that he 
 had come here to settle a litigated inheritance ! 
 Not culpable, when he talked of having moved 
 intimately among the vieille noblesse of France, 
 of having fought a duel with a French duke, of 
 having saved the life of an Italian prince during 
 a squall off Guernsey ! Not culpable, when " 
 
 " Stop ! " interrupted my listener with a hollow 
 cough that at once roused my pity and repressed 
 my contradictory ardor. " I must implore of you 
 not to argue, not to oppose. I claim the tyranny 
 of an invalid. I insist upon your respecting my 
 weakness as if it were a strength. And I assert 
 that Mr. Studwell is simply a young man who 
 imagines. He imagines vastly, exorbitant^ ; but 
 he does not imagine maliciously. I have studied 
 him, and I know. If he had possessed the literary 
 gift, I think he might have made a remarkable 
 novelist ; not of the realistic school, perhaps, but 
 the romantic decidedly the romantic. Really, 
 Mr. Manhattan, you must excuse me from saying 
 much more. But what I do wish greatly to say is 
 that you had better cross out all record on the 
 books of the Metropolitan Club which concern 
 your having proposed Mr. J. Morton Studwell 
 there for a six-months' visitor. It would never do 
 to have him one. He well, he imagines too much. 
 Imagination in the right place is very good and 
 proper, but " 
 
 "But the Metropolitan is no place for it," I 
 
THE YOUNG MAN WHO IMAGINES. 199 
 
 broke in with speed and not a little irony. " You 
 are perfectly correct, Mr. Hyde. I shall accept 
 your counsel and act upon it unhesitatingly." 
 
 It is almost needless to add that I did so at my 
 earliest opportunity. 
 
200 SOCIAL SILHOUETTES. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 THE LADY WHO CAN BE VULGAK WITH SAFETY. 
 
 "You don't like Mrs. Pedigree Pendleton, do 
 you? "said Marion Bland to me one evening at 
 Daly's Theatre. We were seated together in that 
 lovely home of mirth. An entr'acte had just fol- 
 lowed the glittering comedy of Lewis, the vivid 
 piquancy of Ada Rehan, the sly fun of Mrs. Gil- 
 bert, the crisp elegance of John Drew. I had 
 made one of a most agreeable "theatre party." We 
 had dined sumptuously at the beautiful home of 
 that sparkling little widow, Mrs. Chalcourt, and 
 afterward we had gone in a merry, careless bevy 
 to Daly's Theatre. The play was one of those 
 adroit, buoyant things that one wishes to be critical 
 about, and yet cannot help liking uncritically, so 
 novel are its situations, so witty .its dialogue, 
 so genial and refined its atmosphere. 
 
 This theatre always puts one into a good humor. 
 I had been put into a good humor. But Miss 
 Bland perilously threatened it by a reference to 
 Mrs. Pedigree Pendleton. 
 
 She sat in one of the boxes. She had spoken so 
 loudly during the performance, that not to hear her 
 shrill, strident voice was almost not to attend the 
 
THE LADY WHO CAN BE VULGAR, ETC. 201 
 
 perfect art of the actors. She is very stout ; she 
 indubitably laces; she wears bonnets that are 
 horrors of millinery, and to-night she had on a 
 bonnet entirely composed of small sunflowers. 
 Her face is attractive. It has three distinct chins, 
 and an arch of nose, white as marble, whose end 
 nearly touches the clean-cut and red-tinted upper 
 lip. The instant you look upon her, you know that 
 she is an American. She might be lost fcr days 
 in the Desert of Sahara, and at once identified as 
 an American by any wandering party of rescuers 
 who might chance upon her. I am sure that her 
 first cry for bread would be so nasal, so acute, so 
 harshly individual, that her nationality would 
 admit of no possible dispute. Her age is surely 
 fifty-five. 
 
 She is one of my aversions, and Marion Bland 
 knows it. Marion has no aversions herself. She 
 is comprehensively and vastly amiable. She is not 
 at all clever, but her exquisite sympathy constantly 
 makes her appear so. She has an oval face of deli- 
 cate coloring, and two deliciously facile dimples. 
 When she smiles upon you, all criticism is sent to 
 the winds. You feel that it is so much better and 
 rarer to be able to smile like that than to have 
 hoards of opinions, views, impressions. I have 
 never known anybody who did not like Marion 
 Bland. To be her enemy would mean an extraor- 
 dinary kind of grudge, like a quarrel with 
 sunlight, or a misunderstanding with salubrious 
 weather. 
 
202 SOCIAL SILHOUETTES. 
 
 "I don't like Mrs. Pedigree Pendleton," I now 
 said to my companion, " and, if I talked at present 
 with almost anyone else in the world, I think that 
 I could make my reasons for this dislike perfectly 
 clear ; but there is no use attempting it with you. 
 You are too indulgently genial." 
 
 Marion nodded. "I think that I understand 
 you, however," she said. 
 
 " Oh, I don't doubt it," was my reply. " If you 
 could be human or unsaintly, you would probably 
 share my opinions." 
 
 Marion gave me her best smile. "Don't you 
 think," she said in a slow and somewhat musing 
 way, " that Mrs. Pendleton has a very good heart ? " 
 
 I laughed. " That is so like you!" I said. "I 
 never thought at all about Mrs. Pendle ton's heart. 
 Her manners are what she always makes me remem- 
 ber, whenever her face dawns upon my vision, oi- 
 lier name upon my memory." 
 
 " Tell me why you so disapprove of her," said 
 Marion Bland, fixing upon me a pair of eyes as 
 brown as an autumn oak-leaf. "I suppose you 
 mean that she is vulgar." 
 
 " Vulgar ! " I repeated. Well, how can one pos- 
 sibly think otherwise ? " 
 
 " She was a Miss Hudsonbank, you know," said 
 Marion seriously. 
 
 " Of course she was," I assented. " Is not the 
 fact of her having been a Miss Hudsonbank per- 
 petually recorded to her credit ? Is it not because 
 
THE LADY WHO CAN BE VULGAR, ETC. 203 
 
 of her having been a Hudsonbank that she is per- 
 mitted to do and say all sorts of unconventional 
 things? If she had been a Brown, Jones, Smith, or 
 Robinson, she would long ago have been publicly 
 execrated. As it is, with her money and her pres- 
 tige of name, she prances rough-shod through New 
 York society." 
 
 " All ! " said Marion Bland gently, " that is very 
 
 severe," 
 
 The play recommenced soon afterward, and when 
 it had ended our little company became crowded in 
 its exit against that of Mrs. Pedigree Pendleton. 
 The lady was brought face to face with Marion 
 Bland and myself. She shook hands with both 
 of us. 
 
 " Ain't this just the loveliest theatre in all the 
 world ? " she began excitedly to rattle. " I guess 
 they had better put their wits together if they 
 want to beat it on the other side. I just feel as if 
 I could take that Ada Rehan and hug and kiss 
 her. Ain't she sweet? I almost split, laughing 
 at that last act. We came round ever so unex- 
 pectedly. I gave a little dinner-party, and thought 
 about sending for a box only just at the last min- 
 ute. I was awfully lucky to get it. Cousin Tom 
 Knickerbocker had engaged it for to-night ; and 
 you know, of course, how his poor dear little wife 
 dropped off with pneumonia yesterday. So, as 
 Tom could n't go, I got our butler, Patrick, to 
 secure the tickets. I dare say it was n't just the 
 
204 SOCIAL SILHOUETTES. 
 
 right sort of thing to do, as Delia Knickerbocker 
 and I were so nearly related. Still, good gracious ! 
 a person can't always be standing on ceremony. I 
 was ever so fond of poor Delia, you know; she was 
 my second-cousin through the Biverdale branch of 
 our family. You 're looking as sweet as a peach, 
 Marion : you always do. I says to ma, the other 
 day you know ma, of course, dear old ma, Mrs. 
 Highbridge Hudsonbank I says to her the other 
 day, 'Ma,' I says, 'there ain't a girl anywheres that 
 I think as much of as I do of Marion Bland.' 
 You 're a regular trump, Marion, and the man that 
 gets you '11 get a wife to be proud of. Now, don't 
 smirk like that, Mr. Manhattan ; you 're sceptical 
 p'haps, and p'haps you ain't. I don't know. Mar- 
 ion can make her pick can't you, Marion? By 
 the way, drop in for a cup o' tea with me to-morrow 
 at 'bout five, both of you. 'Tain't anything big, 
 you know. Just a few. Lizzie Somerset 's coming. 
 How funny it sounds, don't it, to say Lizzie Somer- 
 set ! I mean Lizzie Peekskill, my first cousin, you 
 know, who married Lord Percy Somerset a year 
 or so ago. Do come, both o' you." 
 
 No one appeared to think all this sort of thing 
 vulgar. It was spoken in a voice of keen shrill- 
 ness ; it was accompanied by quick turns of the 
 head to right and left ; it was lacking in every 
 vestige of ladylike repose, decorum, or tact. And 
 yet no one appeared to think it vulgar. It was so 
 essentially vulgar, that, if Mrs. Pedigree Pendleton 
 
THE LADY WHO CAN BE VULGAR, ETC. 205 
 
 had not been hedged about with the social emi- 
 nence of the Hudsonbanks, lips would have curled 
 in disdain at her raw crudeness. As it was, she 
 could be vulgar with safety. 
 
 Marion Bland and I both accepted her invita- 
 tion. It was by no means an ordinary one. 
 Hundreds of New York people would have bowed 
 before her to secure it. Only certain guests had 
 been asked, and these were of the kind not easily 
 obtainable. Mrs. Pendleton's bustling vernacular 
 "just a few" had meant what is usually termed 
 by fashionable journals the cream of society. 
 Ladies were seated in her drawing-room whose 
 tyranny as regarded their visiting-lists had a Ly- 
 curgan strictness. These ladies were scattered 
 about the apartments in various postures of patri- 
 cian tranquillity. They interfolded their long- 
 gloved hands; they softly moved their graceful 
 heads ; they raised or lowered their discreet eye- 
 brows ; they spoke in voices of the most delicate 
 modulation ; they smiled with a disciplined suavity, 
 as though some aristocratic law had been passed 
 against any over-cordial excesses in smiling. They 
 were all models of nicety, of serenity, of high-bred 
 exactitude. And yet they seemed wholly oblivi- 
 ous of how their bluff, hoydenish, roturiere hostess 
 was continually violating all their own beloved 
 principles of deportment. 
 
 The whole experience struck me as so amusingly 
 quaint that I forgot my sworn antipathy to Mrs. 
 
206 SOCIAL SILHOUETTES. 
 
 Pedigree Pendleton. I had the desire to receive 
 a few strong and biting impressions from this ex- 
 traordinary social free-lance this woman who 
 could be vulgar with such a positively superb 
 safety. I watched my chance, and addressed Mrs. 
 Pendleton in the most affably courteous tones I 
 could employ. 
 
 "You have a very charming house," I said; 
 "but doubtless you are tired of being told that 
 very obvious truth." 
 
 I was at once disarrayed. My outworks of 
 refined civility, so to speak, were promptly de- 
 molished. Mrs. Pendleton answered me with a 
 rather violent blow of her fan on my left arm. 
 
 " Oh, you get right along, Mark Manhattan ! " 
 she cried, with a joviality that came little short of 
 waking my awe. " Don't you come any o' your 
 ridic'lous airs over me, talkin' 'bout my house as 
 if you ain't had the entrSe to it" (the French 
 word was pronounced excellently) " since you 
 were a youngster in frocks ! But you 've never 
 come here till to-day, an' I just want to tell you, 
 sir, that I think it's pretty shabby you have n't." 
 
 " Shabby ! " I faltered. " Really, Mrs. Pendleton, 
 I" 
 
 The fan was once more applied to my person. 
 It is my belief that I was now smitten on the right 
 arm instead of the left. 
 
 "Oh, don't you 'really, Mrs. Pendleton ' me! I 
 ain't goin* to stand it. 1 knew that poor, dear, 
 
THE LADY WttO CAN BE VULGAR, ETC. 207 
 
 darling mother o' yours before you were born. 
 Yes, I did. You see, I give myself away, as they 
 put it nowadays. But it 's true, an' I don't care. 
 I tell my husband, I tell him if lie 's satisfied with 
 me as I am, I guess I ain't 'fraid to pass for an 
 old woman anywheres. An' you ought to be 
 ashamed, Mark Manhattan, not to have come here 
 more. It 's the same old house I 've always lived 
 in since I was married, and that 's half a cen- 
 tury ago, more or less, so don't say you did n't 
 know it. Besides, this Washington Square house 
 was ma's long beforehand, and everybody knows 
 where the old Hudsonbank family mansion is. So 
 don't you put on airs and say you could n't find 
 me. I don't believe you ever came to Sally's ball, 
 when I brought her out at Delmonico's in '79 ; 
 though I '11 give in if you say you were there, for 
 it was such a big crush, and I got so flustered 
 receivin', that p'haps I may have missed you. 
 But still, anyhow, you have n't been sociable a bit. 
 And you ought to have remembered me as your 
 mother's old friend. Besides, we 're related ; the 
 Manhattans an' the Hudsonbanks have always 
 been sort o' cousins, though your branch is n't so 
 near us as the Gracechurch one is. Old Betsy 
 Manhattan, your great-grandmother married a 
 ITudsonbank, though. Now, Mark, look here. I 
 don't want to talk family; I guess it's better not 
 to talk it just now, when Tom, Dick, and Harry 
 are pushin' and scramblin' to get into everything 
 
208 SOCIAL SILHOUETTES. 
 
 that 's given. It 's nothin' nowadays but 
 money, money. I d'clare, I get just sick at the 
 way things are ! " (Here, if I mistake not, my 
 right shoulder was vehemently assaulted with the 
 fan.) "'Pon my word, I don't know what New 
 York is coming to ! Some people say I 'm snob- 
 bish. I ain't a bit. But I 'm opposed to havin' a 
 reg'lar rabble in place o' the good old stock. We 're 
 the good old stock. Don't you ever forget that. 
 We 've got the real 'ristocratic blood in our veins. 
 Why, I d'clare to goodness, I'd rather see my 
 Sally a corpse than have her marry one o' those 
 young Wall Street upstarts that might go to smash 
 before the honeymoon 's over. There ! There 's 
 Lord Percy at last! I was 'fraid he could n't 
 get here. He had to see some horrid feller from 
 out West who 's been takin' care of his cattle-ranch 
 there. 'Xcuse me a minute." 
 
 Away darted Mrs. Pendleton. My glance fol- 
 lowed her in melancholy dismay. But nobody 
 else's glance so followed her. She was the lady 
 who could be safely vulgar. I cannot conceive 
 why, unless because of the devout snobbery which 
 revered her position and name. It was not to be 
 questioned that her deplorable style remained 
 unnoticed ; but I am really of the opinion that it 
 always remained uncriticised. She made people 
 forget what she was because of recollecting who 
 she was. 
 
 I left her entertainment that afternoon in com- 
 
THE LADY WHO CAN BE VULGAR, ETC. 209 
 
 pany with old Courtlandt Canal. I suppose Court- 
 landt Canal must be sixty-five if a day, and yet he 
 carries his years as he carries his jaunty, breezy 
 little gray mustache, nonchalantly and buoyantly. 
 He has been a great beau in his time, and is still 
 very popular. He is flippant, but he is, after a 
 manner, wise. He knows his narrow world well ; 
 and he has so many neat, apt things to say about 
 it, that you are sometimes almost led to regard it 
 as a wide world. 
 
 " A very lovely woman, Mark," said Courtlandt 
 Canal to me as we strolled along together. He 
 was answering a bit of rather bold scorn which I 
 had delivered concerning Mrs. Pedigree Pendle- 
 ton. " A very lovely woman, and a woman you 
 should not sneer at." 
 
 I put my hand on his arm, thin as a cane, and 
 hard as a nut. " Good heavens ! " I said, " do you 
 not think her stupendously vulgar ? " 
 
 My companion frowned, and shook his head in 
 brisk negative. "Vulgar? "he said almost stam- 
 meringly . " Why why damn it, Mark, do you 
 know that she was a Hudsonbank ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes ! " I replied dryly. " I am very well 
 aware that she was a Hudsonbank. I ought to be." 
 
 "Vulgar?" continued Courtlandt Canal, scan- 
 ning my face with his dim, senile, kindly eye. 
 " Not at all not at all. You young chaps get 
 very funny ideas. Mrs. Pendleton ahem ! be- 
 longs well, we'll say that she belongs to a past 
 
210 SOCIAL SILHOUETTES. 
 
 generation. She lias n't the modern way of speak- 
 ing or acting. I '11 I '11 grant you that. And, 
 indeed, now that you remind me of it, I should say 
 that ahem ! looked at from a a modern point 
 of -view, she might even be called well, yes, vul- 
 gar. But then, my dear Mark, Mrs. Pendleton, 
 recollect, is a lady who " 
 
 He paused. I laughed as he did so, and ended 
 his sentence for him. " She is a lady who can be 
 vulgar with safety," I said. 
 
AN ANGLO-MANIAC WITH BRAINS, 
 
 XVII. 
 
 AN ANGLO-MANIAC WITH BRAINS. 
 
 THERE were various opinions regarding Mr. 
 Somers Cliffe when he first appeared in New York 
 societjr. He was then about two and thirty. He 
 had lived in England perhaps half his life. Hav- 
 ing been graduated at Columbia College with high 
 honors, he had crossed the Atlantic to matriculate 
 at Oxford, and from twenty till twenty-four he had 
 shone with a good deal of scholarly brilliancy at 
 the famed university. It was surely a most excep- 
 tional and noteworthy career ; and, as Somers Cliffe 
 came of a family who had all held their heads high 
 in New York for at least three generations or so, 
 a good deal of renown accompanied his final ren- 
 tre'e into the city of his birth. He was invited 
 everywhere, dined excessively, courted assiduous- 
 ly ; but after a little while he had failed to make 
 himself popular. 
 
 He had not, indeed, the appearance of seeking 
 to " make himself " anything. His look and man- 
 ner were the very refinement of gentlemanliness. 
 I have never seen a man to whom the term of 
 'gentlemanly " so strikingly and promptly applied. 
 It was somehow the first thing you thought of 
 
212 SOCIAL SILHOUETTES. 
 
 after you had become conscious of him, how 
 gentlemanly he was. He dressed with extreme 
 taste; but there was no one feature of his cos- 
 tume that you could recall as having made you 
 pass this judgment. He had no florid excesses in 
 cravats, no decorative subtlety in scarf-pins. It 
 was all perfect, and yet you could not divide its 
 details. He was not handsome, though his firm, 
 pure-cut features, his blond, curly hair, his rip- 
 pling mustache of a slightly darker shade, and his 
 tall, lithe figure, narrowly escaped the verdict of 
 manly beauty. I think he would have been called 
 handsome if he had smiled more if he had not 
 shown, in some peculiar and unexplainable way, 
 that he was trying very decorously and duteously 
 not to look bored. That is how he appealed to 
 me, and he did appeal to me as soon as I met him. 
 He was doing his best not to look bored. Later 
 I became convinced that he had even pondered this 
 question, given it his serious attention, and put 
 himself rather conscientiously upon his guard 
 concerning it. 
 
 Perhaps it explained why certain people grew to 
 dislike him. He was not the sort of man who is 
 openly disliked in New York society. He had 
 come over to attend the management of a very 
 large estate, left him on the sudden death of a 
 bachelor uncle, and he had previously been pos- 
 sessed of an ample income. In a city like New 
 York, where money is reverenced and genuflected 
 to, and where its possession so easily gilds a tar- 
 
AN ANGLO-MANIAC WITH EBAINS. 213 
 
 nislied repute and a rusty education, a man like 
 Somers Cliffe could of course find it a shield and 
 buckler against the least uncivil hint. 
 
 Nevertheless, I soon discovered that gossip 
 boiled with regard to him, and threw up some of 
 its most malodorous fumes. He had been accused 
 of saying (though I was certain he had too much 
 sense and tact to dream of saying it) that he had 
 always respected the memory of Washington be- 
 cause that celebrated patriot had had the advan- 
 tage of being an Englishman. He was accused of 
 saying (though I believed the charge also to be one 
 of spite and spleen) that America was a very short 
 distance from England, but that England's dis- 
 tance from her former colonies could not justly be 
 measured on any known chart. I am confident 
 that these and similar canards were all of the 
 most fabulous origin. I have a good many hard 
 things to record against Mr. Somers Cliffe before I 
 shall have done with him ; but I believe in giving, 
 as one might put it, Satan the credit for shapely 
 bat's wings and symmetrical talons. 
 
 One of his worst detractors not Satan's, but 
 Mr. Cliffe's was, I soon discovered, a certain 
 Mr. Amos Brooklynheight. Of course, everybody 
 knows the Brooklynheights ; and Amos, with his 
 vast volubility and his little feathery, insignificant 
 body, does his best to perpetuate their ton. Pri- 
 vately, I think that Amos quite fails, and that it 
 would have been better for his race (sprung from 
 an ambitious butcher, sneers calumny, less than 
 
214 SOCIAL SILHOUETTES. 
 
 seventy years ago) if the volatile and expansive 
 Amos had never been born. I wonder if the mar- 
 tinets of etymology will permit me to coin a new 
 word. I want very much to coin it (so much is 
 coined nowadays, that, though spurious, passes cur- 
 rent), and I offer humble apologies to any stray 
 pundit whose spectacled eye might chance upon 
 my writing. It gives me pleasure, therefore, 
 to write Amos Brooklynheight down as an Ameri- 
 co-maniac. I think, with a sort of paternal fond- 
 ness, now that I have written the word, that it 
 looks quite as correct as "Anglo-maniac," which 
 the usual newspaper fag knows so well, and hurls 
 at us so often. 
 
 Well, Amos was that I won't write the loved 
 derivative again, proud as I feel of having created 
 it. He soon made up his mind that Somers Cliffe 
 was abominable. And he went about, with his 
 drooping shoulders and his short stature and his 
 pug-nose and his ethereal slimness, circulating all 
 sorts of slanderous stories about his aversion. 
 
 " You don't like Somers Cliffe," I said to him 
 on a certain evening at the supper-table of the 
 Harlems', just before one of the most unruly and 
 coltish cotillons that ever taxed my politeness as a 
 leader. " Pray, why don't you like him ? " 
 
 Amos stood on his tiptoes. He was constantly 
 standing that way when he addressed people of 
 ordinary size, because his gushes of feeling seemed 
 to demand it. He snapped his tiny black eyes at 
 me, and at once said : 
 
AN ANGLO-MANIAC WITH BRAINS. 215 
 
 " No, I don't like him. And I guess there ain't 
 many people that do." Amos was a Wall Street 
 broker, by the way. I have heard many eccen- 
 tricities of speech from Wall Street brokers, and 
 many marvels of slang, but it is my impression, 
 that, for solid vulgarity, little prattlesome Amos 
 surpasses them all. " Look here, Mark," he rat- 
 tlingl} T proceeded. " I ain't a Brooklynheight for 
 no thin'. Ev'rybody knows who I am, don't you 
 make any mistake. I 'm talkin' to a man that 
 knows me, ain't I ? " 
 
 " Oh ! of course." 
 
 " Very well. I guess my people's been in New 
 York s'ciety as long as ever the Cliffes were there. 
 Ain't I right? Well, I ain't any slouch, an' you 
 can just bet yer bottom dollar that way ! " 
 
 This was enigmatical. It had an CEdipean 
 flavor: it suggested the Sphinx herself. I was 
 not sure that I at all knew what a "slouch" 
 meant. But I hazarded an assumed acquaintance 
 with the word. Since the lively Amos had de- 
 clared that he was not it, I ventured to think that 
 it was something which correct people did not 
 desire to be. 
 
 " Oh, no ! " I acquiesced, "you 're you 're not, 
 of course. Oh, no ! of course." 
 
 "Well," retorted Amos, still on tiptoe, "I ain't 
 goin' to have that feller treat me 's if I was the 
 poor relation of his footman, am I ? Wat 's he, 
 anyhow, comin' over t' this glorious country, and 
 settin' himself up for an Englishman ? " 
 
216 SOCIAL SILHOUETTES. 
 
 "Does he set himself up for an Englishman? " 
 
 "Dorit he ! You can jus' bet he does ! " And 
 then followed from the lips of the indignant Amos 
 (who must be so invaluable in that howling Stock 
 Exchange, because he is nearly always indignant 
 about something or somebody) a torrent of vitu- 
 peration regarding Somers Cliffe. 
 
 Of course, I minded no more what this testy 
 little Americo-maniac said about his last object of 
 national hatred than I would have minded the 
 strident chirp of one of our own transpontine 
 katydids. If I am not wrong, it was on that same 
 evening after the Harlems' horrid prancing 
 german that I drank a late brandy-and-soda 
 with Cliffe at the club. I got to like him better 
 then, as I got to like him better every fresh time 
 that we met and talked together. 
 
 "He is an Anglo-maniac," I told myself, "but he 
 is one of a wholly new type in this country. He 
 is an Anglo-maniac with brains. We see them by 
 scores here, but they are all the same as scores 
 of other animals usually are. They simper, and 
 twirl canes, and drawl, and are cumulatively 
 idiots. To be an Anglo-maniac has got to mean, 
 of late, being an idiot. When we hear the charge 
 flung at a fellow-creature, we are at once prepared 
 for fatuity. But Somers Cliffe, although merit- 
 ing the charge, is widely removed from fatuity : 
 therefore he interests me ; and therefore, as a 
 new individuality, an unexpected personage, I am 
 anxious to observe him, to investigate him, to 
 classify him." 
 
AN ANGLO-MANIAC WITH BRAINS. 217 
 
 Fate soon afterward gave me this chance. I at- 
 tended a dinner-party at Delmonico's, composed 
 wholly of men, where the superabundant wines 
 put us all into a good humor, and the finesse of the 
 cookery made digestion a delight. Somers Cliffe 
 was among the guests at this dinner, and chance 
 placed us side by side. We talked of many things, 
 .and in all that he said I perceived no trace of the 
 superciliousness which Amos Brooklynheight had 
 denounced. At last I inquired of him : 
 
 " Shall you go abroad soon again ? " 
 
 He gave a perceptible start, and his mild blue 
 eyes swept my face in a rather searching way. " I 
 sometimes tell myself," he slowly answered, " that 
 I shall never cross the ocean again." 
 
 Of all possible answers, this from Somers Cliffe 
 was the most sharply unexpected. " Never cross 
 again!" I exclaimed. "Why, what can have 
 suggested the making of such a resolve?" 
 
 He thoughtfully watched a curl of smoke from 
 his own cigar, that had drifted round a garnet 
 wineglass, and was making a little nimbus over it, 
 as though it were the goblet of some Olympian 
 feast. Then he lifted his gaze once more, and let 
 it meet mine with a most serious directness. 
 
 " To go back, and yet not to go back feeling that 
 I am permanently to remain there," he said, " is 
 always a pain for me." 
 
 I smiled. "And you cannot permanently re- 
 main?" 
 
 " No. My affairs here render it impossible. I 
 
218 SOCIAL SILHOUETTES. 
 
 cannot trust them to agents or clerks. There are 
 two or three charitable institutions, as you may 
 perhaps have heard, which were founded by my 
 late uncle, and whose superintendence I consid- 
 ered a sacred charge. You can form no idea of 
 the responsibility, the care, the vigilance, which 
 these entail." 
 
 I smiled again, and this time with a touch of 
 sarcastic commiseration, as I said, " So, then, you 
 will be doomed to the hard fate of living here?" 
 
 " I am afraid it is inevitable." 
 
 " And you do not like it here ? " 
 
 " If I told you how little I like it here," he an- 
 swered, again looking at me earnestly, " I am 
 afraid you would feel personally displeased." 
 
 " Oh, I never resent any hard tilings said aoout 
 America," I laughed, " unless some one who is not 
 an American says them. If you told me how little 
 you like it here, Mr. Cliffe," I went on, " I should 
 by no means feel personally displeased. But I am 
 certain, that, if you were to tell me why you like it 
 so little, I should be a good deal interested." 
 
 " And, pray, for what reason ? " he swiftly que- 
 ried, with his English accent and his graceful 
 English way of leaning the body forward. 
 
 " Because," I said, " it is my impression that 
 you are able to make out a very good case, as the 
 lawyers phrase it. I should like very much to 
 hear your frank opinion of this country." 
 
 He shook his head. " I have never put it in 
 words," he said. "I don't know that I could; 
 
AN ANGLO-MANIAC WITH BRAINS. 219 
 
 and I feel convinced, that, if I did, you would not 
 be inclined to hear me through." 
 
 " Then I should be simply showing myself a 
 worthless partisan. The man who will listen only 
 to praise of America's virtues does not deserve to 
 benefit by them. He should be punished for his 
 prejudice by having some of her faults rise up and 
 hurt him." 
 
 " Quite so," said Mr. Cliffe absently, as though 
 he were thinking of something else. "I say I" he 
 presently continued, " would you be able to stand 
 hearing America pitched into most mercilessly ? " 
 
 "Yes," I answered. " I think I could if you did 
 the pitching-in." 
 
 " Oh ! that 's very kind of you, I 'm sure." 
 
 " Not at all. It 's rather selfish, on the whole. 
 I suppose you know this new word, ' Anglo-maniac,' 
 which the newspapers are popularizing, and which 
 people are beginning to use as glibly as if it were 
 a century old. Well, of all the Anglo-maniacs 
 whom I have thus far met in life, I have seen but 
 one who possessed brains. All the rest have been 
 distinct and complete fools. I hope, by the way, 
 that you will pardon me for suggesting that you 
 are an Anglo-maniac. And let me add that you 
 are the exception to which I referred." 
 
 This appeared by no means to displease Mr. 
 Cliffe, though its candor was perhaps a trifle uncivil 
 in me, considering our limited acquaintance. But 
 somehow from that evening our acquaintance 
 ripened rather speedily into an intimacy. Still, 
 
220 SOCIAL SILHOUETTES. 
 
 Somers Cliffe never alluded to his own coun- 
 try ; and I, being perhaps a little piqued that he 
 should have repelled my endeavors to hear his true 
 views frankly expressed, forbore from asking him 
 a single question that touched on this subject. 
 Meanwhile, knowing him better, I knew better 
 how intensely English he was. His whole life 
 seemed modelled on a transatlantic plan. It 
 would be foolish for me to attempt a specification 
 of the hundred and one minor details to which I 
 now allude. The more intimate I became with 
 him, the more my respect for his mind and char- 
 acter deepened. I found myself constantly listen- 
 ing to him with a desire for actual enlighten- 
 ment, a wish to be set squarely and safely 
 right on certain vexed and baffling questions. I 
 suppose that any man whose life has chiefly been 
 passed in the haute volSe of New York circles may 
 be said to possess a meagre experience of edu- 
 cated people. However, judged by this sort of ex- 
 perience, it seemed to me that Somers Cliffe was 
 the most efficiently and thoroughly educated man 
 I had ever met. 
 
 One evening, while we were smoking together 
 in my library, I said to him with rather bold 
 abruptness : 
 
 " Upon my word, Cliffe, it is a shame you have 
 to live here." 
 
 I think for a moment he suspected me of a ran- 
 dom, slurring satire. Doubtless he had heard 
 some of those tales afloat about him or at least 
 
AN ANGLO-MANIAC WITH BRAINS. 221 
 
 had been told by one or two sweet, kind friends 
 that they existed. His cheek had slightly flushed, 
 I observed, as he now replied, without a tinge of 
 annoyance in his smooth tones : 
 
 " Pray, why do you think it a shame that I have 
 to live here?" 
 
 " Oh, come, now ! " I replied, " don't take me up 
 quite so sharply." 
 
 " But your comment was a very expressive one 
 and inclusive as well." 
 
 " I know that you abominate living in Amer- 
 ica," I laughed. "There, old fellow, that is still 
 more expressive and inclusive. But you would 
 never give me the reasons for either your prefer- 
 ence or your antipathy." 
 
 " The reasons ! " murmured ClifTe. He was 
 buried in a tufted arm-chair of black velvet, 
 against which his blond head, gleamed in the red 
 flashes of a near fire. I wonder why it is that 
 blond hair always has so patrician a suggestion 
 when it is near black velvet. I cannot explain 
 why, but I am convinced of the fact. 
 
 " The reasons ! " again murmured Cliffe, who 
 had been staring straight into the red crumbled 
 logs of my wood fire. He suddenly turned and 
 looked at me. " Why, there are hundreds, thou- 
 sands of reasons ! " 
 
 " For liking England better than America ? " 
 I asked. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " I should like to hear a few of them," I said. 
 
22 SOCIAL SILHOUETTES. 
 
 "Some of them are very plain and positive. 
 Others are so elusive and shadowy that they 
 escape you from hour to hour. The truth is, my 
 dear Manhattan, we call ourselves a country, and 
 we are not a country at all." 
 
 (At last ! I was finally to hear Anglo-mania 
 plead its own cause from the lips of Mr. Somers 
 Cliffe, as I had wanted to hear for so long.) 
 
 "Not a country!" I repeated. "What are we, 
 then?" 
 
 "A colony. I assure you that this is true. 
 Every feature of our civilization is distinctly colo- 
 nial. Our government, our art, our literature, 
 they all belong, like our language, to other lands. 
 We might just as well concede it, for it is irrefut- 
 ably true. There is nothing original about us 
 except our vulgarity. As soon as we become 
 refined, we are European. Unconsciously to our- 
 selves, we speak with contempt of each other's sins 
 against taste and good-breeding as ' so American.' 
 We wave our star-spangled banner, (and, by the 
 way, what a flashy, paltry epithet ' star-spangled ' 
 is !) and declare great things concerning our land, 
 on the 4th of every July. But the truth is, Man- 
 hattan, that we are an immense failure. I do not 
 know a single prophecy that America has ful- 
 filled, a single great promise that she has kept. 
 She was to be a grand improvement on the feudal- 
 isms and bitter social inequalities of Europe. In 
 New York, Boston, and all her larger cities, to-day, 
 caste is digging deeper intrenchrnents, building 
 
AN ANGLO-MANIAC WITH BRAINS. 223 
 
 stouter defences. They call it the aristocracy of 
 money. It is nothing of the sort. Money has 
 always fed and helped all aristocracies. It is the 
 old, patrician, ' I am born above you ' impulse, and 
 it is nothing more or less. Look at our political 
 life. It is one huge scandal and mockery. We 
 cannot urge our youth as an excuse for the sad 
 lack of morale there, for, indeed, we are not young 
 at all. We are very old in precedent, in the 
 power to profit by example. We had all the 
 hideous wrongs of Europe for centuries to warn 
 us. We started out magnificently, and what have 
 we accomplished? A weak and miserable imita- 
 tion, nothing more. We are wholly without inde- 
 pendence of thought, though we have a monstrous 
 assumption of it, a loud braggadocio, a terrible 
 swagger. Foreign plays fill our theatres, foreign 
 books crowd our libraries, for whose production 
 we will not give their authors even a decent wage ; 
 foreign garments are worn by us with an eager 
 preference ; foreign manners are cultivated by us 
 with a slavish allegiance. I cannot conceive why 
 we are so boastful, since we are so stupidly un- 
 original. Not long ago a great statue was pre- 
 sented to us in the name of the great French 
 nation, and our Congress has disgraced itself by 
 making no appropriation toward the erection of a 
 proper pedestal. We rush abroad in droves every 
 year, and stare at famed pictures, chatter in stately 
 cathedrals. But we return with no desire to have 
 the same on these shores no national or muni- 
 
224 SOCIAL SILHOUETTES. 
 
 cipal desires, I mean, to make art a culture here, 
 a purpose, an illuminative project. It is only 
 necessary for one to travel in our West for 
 one to realize how we revel in ugliness. But 
 we revel also in vanity. Some day, when we 
 are really a country and not a colony, we may 
 learn" 
 
 " Oh, for Heaven's sake, stop ! " I cried, jumping 
 up from my seat. " I can't let you go on like this ! 
 I really can't ! " 
 
 Cliffe threw his cigar into the fire. "I knew 
 you would grow wrathful," he said with his cool, 
 suave smile, "if I ever told you my reasons for 
 detesting this country ; and that is why I have 
 delayed doing it for so long a time." 
 
 " I am not wrathful ! " I exclaimed. " And you 
 must pardon my telling you in my own house that 
 I think anger would be a very foolish answer to 
 sentiments as unsound as these." 
 
 "Which plainly shows one that you are very 
 angry indeed," said Cliffe with perfect composure. 
 "On the whole, I am rather sorry," he proceeded, 
 " for I have a great many more things to say about 
 this country, and " 
 
 "Then in God's name don't say them!" I broke 
 in, dropping back into my arm-chair. . . . 
 
 He did not. We are still the best of friends, 
 but we never discuss international questions. 
 Some day we shall, however. I feel myself slowly 
 warming for a great fight. I am collecting my 
 
AN ANGLO-MANIAC WITII BRAINS. 225 
 
 weapons. Still, I hope it will be a fight ending in 
 friendly truce. I am afraid that it may not be, 
 but I sincerely hope it will ; for I am honestly and 
 admiringly fond of Somers Cliffe, the Anglo-maniac 
 with brains. 
 
226 SOCIAL SILHOUETTES. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 THE YOUNG LADY WHO TRIES TOO HARD. 
 
 " WHY does that Louisa Lowther go out ? " 
 people had almost grown tired of asking. And 
 since I have first clearly learned who and what 
 " that Louisa Lowther " is, I have felt inclined to 
 echo the question. When I try to recall having 
 first met her, I find that she seems to have dawned 
 upon me gradually, through a series of rather 
 vague apparitions. I may, indeed, say that 
 I never positively observed her until she had 
 become to me an unconsciously familiar figure. 
 It then struck me that she had been present at 
 numerous entertainments which I, too, had at- 
 tended. I had a sense of having seen her stand 
 or sit, walk or talk, ever since I had first gone 
 at all into gay circles. She was somehow a factor 
 of gay circles. I discovered that few festal recol- 
 lections were complete without her. I do not 
 mean that I ever met her at dinner-parties, large 
 or small, but rare was the tea or ball that failed to 
 attract Miss Louisa Lowther. 
 
 She was inclined to be thin, with a restless, viva- 
 cious face. Indeed, there looked from her pale 
 blue eyes an eagerness that was unwholesome in 
 
THE YOUNG LADY WHO TRIES TOO HARD. 227 
 
 its fervor. She appeared to be wanting something 
 very much indeed, and always glancing round 
 with a brisk flutter of the eyelids to see if it were 
 not coming. Presumably it never came ; but, if it 
 had been a partner for the german, it would at 
 least now and then have come, though by no 
 means always. There could be no doubt that 
 Miss Lowther was not a success in society ; there 
 could be no doubt that people avoided her. I 
 began to wonder just why they did so, as I 
 watched her. Of course, I must here mention that 
 the fact of her father's moderate income had fully 
 transpired. But several girls whose fathers had 
 moderate incomes were not at all unpopular. 
 Then, on the other hand, Miss Lowther, though 
 not strikingly fair, was by no means notably plain. 
 As I rather covertly regarded her, it seemed to me 
 that society ought to consider her a nice girl. But 
 society evidently did nothing of the sort. She 
 went out incessantly, yet the only persons who 
 appeared to regard her presence with anything 
 like actual concern were those male prowlers about 
 the borderland of frivolity who had no visible motive 
 for accepting invitations except the drearily ego- 
 tistic one of showing that they had received them. 
 More than once I have seen Miss Lowther, when 
 I myself was leader of a german, slip up at the 
 last moment, clinging to some partner whom she 
 had just providentially secured. Her eyelids, on 
 these occasions, would flutter more than ever; her 
 liberal and continual smile would have brightened. 
 
228 SOCIAL SILHOUETTES. 
 
 To regard her was to feel sure that she tingled 
 with achievement, if not precisely victory. And 
 what a petty victory it was especially when one 
 bore in mind the philosophic truth that all triumphs 
 of the ball-room are petty! How small did the 
 success of this self-gratulating girl look to the 
 belle with her seven bouquets and her score of 
 admirers ! 
 
 Before seeking presentation to Miss Lowther, I 
 made a few tentative inquiries concerning her. 
 My proposed informant was an unfortunate selec- 
 tion. I might have known that Amanda Pinck- 
 ney would have taken ex parte views on the 
 subject of her unvalued sister. Amanda, with her 
 proud, cold, white face, her shining coils of coal- 
 black hair, and the facile sneer that hovers round 
 her thin, pink lips, has about as much icy snobbery 
 in her nature as one human soul can, well accom- 
 modate. It is a trait of those Pinckneys that 
 they none of them wear their good birth with the 
 least grace ; they are constantly flirting it at you 
 as if it were a fat purse, and they were people of 
 yesterday. " The accident of birth," in their case, 
 is more like a calamity. If their blood is blue in 
 one sense, I cannot help fancying that it is not 
 red in another. Miss Amanda had very decided 
 opinions regarding Miss Lowther. She curved 
 her long throat a little, looking down at a corsage 
 of leafless white camellias, cold flowers, that, as 
 they rose and fell with the breathings of her cold 
 breast, made me think of snow fallen upon snow. 
 
THE YOUNG LADY WHO TRIES TOO HARD. 229 
 
 "I don't see why the girl should be liked, Mr. 
 Manhattan," she said. "In the first place, you 
 know, she is quite nobody." 
 
 " I did not know, Miss Pinckney. And, indeed, 
 I am at a loss to understand how arrybody can 
 be 'quite nobody.' It seems like a contradiction 
 in terms, don't you think so ? " 
 
 Amanda, who is not at all intelligent, having 
 only the brilliancy of ice, looked as if she did not 
 at all understand. However, if she had under- 
 stood, I am certain that she would have considered 
 my demurrer worth nothing except her civil dis- 
 dain. 
 
 "It is odd how the girl got about," she pro- 
 ceeded. "I have heard that she pushed and 
 strained to a frightful extent several years ago. 
 This is about her fifth season. Of course, she goes 
 everywhere that is, to all the large affairs. I 
 wish that she did n't. I suppose everybody wishes 
 that she did n't. Now that she has managed to 
 thrust herself in, however, no one has the courage 
 to drop her." 
 
 " Poor girl ! " I murmured. 
 
 "Why do you call her that?" queried Miss 
 Amanda. " I don't see any occasion for lavishing 
 pity upon her." 
 
 " To me there is great occasion for pity," I 
 returned. "If, as you say, she has pushed and 
 strained to a frightful extent, her wasted effort is 
 all the more deplorable." 
 
 Amanda fluttered her white eyelids objectiugly. 
 
230 SOCIAL SILHOUETTES. 
 
 " I don't just see what you mean by wasted effort," 
 she said dryly. " Success has crowned it in a most 
 liberal manner, I should imagine." 
 
 " Success ! " I repeated. " You don't really con- 
 nect the word with that ill-fated girl! She has 
 gained nothing, as far as I can see, except tolera- 
 tion. The potentates merely agree not to discoun- 
 tenance her, and that is all. And she appears very 
 grateful for this left-handed courtesy, one must 
 admit." 
 
 " She ought to be grateful," said Amanda Pinck- 
 ney with freezing curtness. 
 
 " Good gracious ! " I exclaimed ; "you speak of 
 her as if she were an adopted pauper." I now 
 looked in Miss Lowther's direction. " She seems 
 to have very good manners," I pursued. 
 
 "They might be better." 
 
 " So might yours, my lofty lady," I thought, yet 
 did not say. But aloud I went on, "She has 
 nothing at all objectionable about her appearance : 
 indeed, I consider her quite attractive ; I think it 
 strange that she should be so shunned. Can you 
 tell me why she is shunned? why she is not more 
 sought by the men ? why she should be the unac- 
 countable failure that I begin to perceive she is ? " 
 
 Miss Pinckney gave a chill smile. "I have not 
 endeavored to account for her unpopularity," she 
 replied, " and, for that matter, I am not sufficiently 
 interested in it to do so." 
 
 This notable bit of hauteur wholly failed to 
 impress me. A little later I secured an introduc- 
 
THE YOUNG LADY WHO TRIES TOO HARD. 231 
 
 tion to Miss Lowtlier. To my surprise, she received 
 me with an almost demoralized mien. 
 
 "I I am so very glad to to meet you, Mr. 
 Manhattan," she said excitedly. She had been 
 seated a few moments before, but she had risen 
 during our mutual introduction, and she now 
 remained standing. "Of of course, I know all 
 about you. How could I help doing so ? " Here 
 the young lady gave a highly nervous little laugh. 
 " You are such a leader, you know. It was very 
 kind of you exceedingly kind." 
 
 " I don't think that I quite understand in what 
 way I have been kind," was my rather astonished 
 answer. Miss Lowther started, and then put her 
 head exaggeratedly sideways. " Oh ! now I am 
 sure you 're not in earnest," she affirmed. "I I 
 did not expect such a great compliment as this." 
 
 " Compliment ! " I repeated almost confusedly. 
 
 "Why, yes. You you have so many oilier 
 claims upon your attention. But, as I said, I I 
 am very glad." 
 
 I began to see the drift of things, and I did not 
 at all like their drift. Miss Lowther's manner had 
 struck me as adulating. It wounded me far more 
 than her possible frigid patronage might have 
 done. 
 
 " It gives me pleasure," I said as demurely as I 
 could manage, " to find that you welcome my ac- 
 quaintanceship ; but I must warn 3^011 in time that 
 it will prove no important advantage in any sense. 
 You have only met a very usual and conventional 
 
232 SOCIAL SILHOUETTES. 
 
 " Conventional certainly, I hope ! " was the 
 quick reply. " But usual ! Oh, how can you em- 
 ploy such a word, even about yourself! I I 
 have heard that you were not at all conceited ; but 
 I I was not prepared for such humility as this. 
 Still, I suppose that is only one of your charms 
 only one of the many reasons why you are such a 
 noteworthy person.'" 
 
 " I am by no means a noteworthy person," I 
 replied, and perhaps a trifle crisply ; for I began 
 to suspect satire on Miss Lowther's part that 
 she was making me wear asses' ears, while she won 
 me to believe her complimentary broadsides were 
 sincerely delivered. " Surely," I went on, " there 
 is no real fame or honor in having a neat waltz- 
 step." 
 
 " But that is not all, you know. That is such 
 a slight part of your accomplishments your at- 
 tractiveness. You have matters quite your own 
 way, Mr. Manhattan. Oh, don't deny that v you 
 do ! You came, saw, and conquered in New York. 
 Why, I believe yes, upon my word I do that 
 if you were actually rude to some of our girls, 
 they would rather accept your rudeness than the 
 civility of other gentlemen." 
 
 I no longer suspected satire now. Miss Low- 
 ther's face expressed the spirit of ardent and effu- 
 sive candor. At the same time this whole speech 
 made rne bite my lips with annoyance. An ad- 
 herent whom I did not know a person with a 
 blank face and a sleepy, milky eye still remained 
 
THE YOUNG LADY WHO TRIES TOO SARD. 233 
 
 at her side. The german was about to begin : so 
 I soon bowed myself away, and joined my partner. 
 When it came Miss Lowther's turn to dance, she 
 took me out. After the figure was completed, and 
 while we danced together, she murmured in my 
 ear: 
 
 " Now that you know me, Mr. Manhattan, I hope 
 you will not entirely forget me." 
 
 " Forget you ! " I responded as gallantly as I 
 could. " That is, of course, quite impossible." 
 
 " Oh, how charming of you ! But I need not 
 tell you that I have heard you were charming." 
 
 A few days later I received an invitation to dine 
 at Miss Lowther's residence. I accepted. She 
 lived in a small, pretty house not far from Fifth 
 Avenue. The drawing-rooms struck me as a trifle 
 over-decorated, it is true ; there were too many 
 screens, rugs, and sofa-cushions ; there was too evi- 
 dent an effort to be telling and chic. But it was 
 all quite charming, nevertheless. I had a little 
 chat with Miss Lowther before dinner ; the guests 
 had been invited for seven, and nearly all came, as 
 usual, at half-past. The young lady's manner al- 
 most shocked me ; it went beyond the bounds of 
 hospitable concern ; it was, in a way, literally ser- 
 vile. And yet I somehow could not help liking 
 her. I found myself mentally insisting that she 
 was a nice girl. But, if so, she was a nice girl hid 
 behind a mist of her own making. I pictured her 
 to myself without this overplus of affability; I 
 thought how pleasant she might be if she had 
 
234 SOCIAL SILHOUETTES. 
 
 merely been glad to see me, and not so preposter- 
 ously glad. Her welcome, her geniality, defeated 
 themselves by their own vehemence. 
 
 And it was just the same with regard to her 
 other guests. Whomever Miss Lowther greeted, 
 she greeted too warmly and cordially. Before her 
 little dinner had ended that evening, I had solved 
 the riddle of her non-success. She tried too hard 
 to succeed. 
 
 Yes, the whole secret lay there. She tried too 
 hard. If her endeavors had been only a few 
 shades less energetic, she would have easily reached 
 a far higher plane of attainment. My friend, Mrs. 
 Stonington, tried woman of the world, gave 
 one of her soft, amused laughs, about three even- 
 ings later, when I communicated to her this dis- 
 covery. 
 
 She is one of the most serenely elegant women 
 whom I know, is Mrs. Stonington. She treats life 
 as if it were an easy, rolling landau, in which she 
 had nothing to do except lean comfortably back- 
 ward and be driven along. No danger of her being 
 genee by too profuse a politeness toward either 
 foes or friends. She looked at me with her large, 
 soft, tawny-brown eyes for a moment after I had 
 spoken, and then said in her smooth, lazy voice : 
 
 " You are very extraordinary." 
 
 " How extraordinary ? " I asked. 
 
 " Oh, in treating men and women just as if they 
 were problems in algebra." Here she tapped one 
 dainty foot impatiently on the floor. We were 
 
THE YOUNG LADY WHO TRIES TOO HARD. 235 
 
 seated together in that beautiful little Japanese 
 room of hers ; I had dined with her a deux ; I was 
 to take her to the opera in a little while ; we were 
 waiting for her carriage to come. She had on a 
 cloak of some white woolly stuff threaded with 
 gold; her arch, indolent face lifted itself on a 
 slender stem of neck from a snowy circlet of swan's- 
 down ; she held a bunch of big pink roses in one 
 gloved hand; she looked enchantingly patrician, 
 and as mondaine as possible, besides ; you would 
 never have suspected her of not getting the best 
 from society ; you could tell by a glance that she 
 was the woman to take for granted, and receive 
 rather as a matter of course, not a little solid and 
 sincere homage ; the feverish struggles of a Miss 
 Lowther were unknown to such as she. 
 
 " But one would not so much mind this fury of 
 observation and analysis," my hostess went on 
 with a somewhat impudent drawl, "if one were 
 not so certain that you are 'collecting material.' 
 It is so tiresome to meet a person who is ' collect- 
 ing material ! ' I mean for a novel, of course." 
 
 " I have not the remotest idea of perpetrating a 
 novel," I said. " There are too many bad ones 
 already." 
 
 Mrs. Stonington raised her brows in surprise. 
 " What refreshing modesty ! " she exclaimed. 
 "But if such is the fact, why on earth do you 
 bore yourself trying to find a reason for the un- 
 popularity of that Lowther girl?" 
 
 " Because I was impressed by her being a girl 
 
236 SOCIAL SILHOUETTES. 
 
 who ought to succeed. But I am convinced that 
 I have hit upon the true reason why she does not. 
 She betrays her anxiety; she tries too hard. Yes, 
 I am sure it is that." 
 
 " You are quite right," now said Mrs. Stoning- 
 ton, whom I expected to be on the verge of con- 
 tradicting me. " When we show that we want a 
 thing very greatly, the world lias a trick of coolly 
 refusing it us. Miss Lowther has more brains 
 than I have and I suppose you know that I 
 don't think myself by any means a fool. I have 
 watched her for some time half unconsciously, 
 perhaps. I could have explained her to you long 
 ago. She was born outside of the fashionable sets. 
 She strove to get in among them, and distinctly 
 did not fail. But her success, so to speak, went to 
 her head. Of course, she is a nice girl ; you are 
 perfectly right in thinking her so ; if I were at 
 some quiet country hotel in the summer, I should 
 prefer her company to that of any reigning belle 
 whom I know. But in society I can't endure her. 
 She is ridiculous there almost a caricature, in 
 fact. She does nothing with grace or tact; and 
 grace and tact are two things that society 
 always thinking so much more of manner than 
 matter holds indispensable. A less frivolous 
 career would become her far better. There are a 
 hundred worthier modes of life in which she might 
 play her part to far greater advantage. But, as it 
 is, she is bitten by the fashionable craze, and her 
 recovery her sensible recognition of her own 
 
THE YOUNG LADY WHO TRIES TOO HARD. 237 
 
 grievous mistake is uncertain, if not absolutely 
 impossible." 
 
 " Poor girl ! " I said, half to my own thoughts. 
 " Poor, foolish, unreasoning girl ! " 
 
 Mrs. Stonington rose at this point, drawing her 
 opera-cloak closer about her handsome figure, with 
 one of her light, melodious, indifferent laughs. 
 The butler had just appeared in the doorway, an- 
 nouncing her carriage. 
 
 "Bah! there are plenty of really miserable 
 people in the world," she said, "who truly merit 
 your compassion. Don't fling it away broadcast. 
 And come let us go to the opera and hear that 
 divine Patti. She tries and succeeds. She is not 
 like your Miss Louisa Lowther, who tries too hard 
 and fails." 
 
238 SOCIAL SILHOUETTES. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 A PILLAR OF VIRTUE. 
 
 " I WISH to present you to my mother," said 
 Miss Lilian Holdridge one evening at a party, 
 while I was having a little chat with her about 
 something, the weather, last night's ball some- 
 where, the voice of the newly imported prinia- 
 donna, I forget wholly, in short, the subject of 
 our converse. 
 
 "Certainly," I said. "It will give me great 
 pleasure." 
 
 This was one of those conventional white lies 
 which we are forever called upon to utter, if we 
 would preserve anything like peace in our social 
 dealings, and retain a shred of reputation for even 
 decent amiability. The truth was that I did not 
 at all want to meet Mrs. Holdridge. I had heard 
 a great deal about this lady, and I had made up 
 my mind that during the coming season, while she 
 appeared in public as the chaperon of her debutante 
 daughter, I would use all polite means of avoiding 
 her. This daughter had pleased me at first sight ; 
 and the lily in her soft name struck me as appro- 
 priate enough to have been prompted when she 
 was christened by some fairy sure of her sweetness 
 
A PILLAR OF VIRTUE. 239 
 
 \ 
 
 yet in bud. She was a little taller than the com- 
 mon maidenly stature, but so slightly above it that 
 this trait gave the pale, chiselled purity of her face 
 a new and gentle dignity. Her meekness and her 
 chastity appealed to you the instant your gaze 
 dwelt on her ; she made one think of " Elaine the 
 fair, Elaine the lovable ; " her hair would have 
 been flaxen but for certain glistening threads in 
 its dense, banded folds. She had all the innocence 
 of a Greuze, and all the saintliness of a Fra Angel- 
 ico. She usually dressed in white, and wore no 
 jewels ; her mother did not approve of jewels in an 
 unmarried woman. Her pure gowns were never de- 
 colletes ; her mother did not approve of their being 
 worn thus by women of any sort, married or un- 
 married. She was not clever ; but you did not ex- 
 pect cleverness to issue from her delicate tea-rose 
 of a mouth ; you would as soon have expected a 
 pearl to flash like a diamond. I have never seen 
 one of her sex so delightfully free from the least 
 trace of vanity and it has at no time been my 
 wont to set down this fault as one distinctively 
 feminine. She was not a belle in society ; she ap- 
 peared to stand apart from the belles, rather 
 through a winsome reluctance to join their artifi- 
 cial throng than from any incapacity to shine and 
 attract there. One look at her convinced you that 
 she was good and honest, and I fear "that not a few 
 of her simpering and wily sisters only looked at 
 her with twinges of compunction on this account. 
 She would not use the manifold adroit devices 
 
240 SOCIAL SILHOUETTES. 
 
 which to so many girls of her place and caste 
 are shield and panoply. She danced like the 
 sylph she was, and always had a partner for the 
 german, and a bouquet besides. But the young 
 men with white waistcoats, and assured incomes, 
 and superfine reputations for conferring special 
 honor by their civilities, appeared, as a rule, a little 
 afraid of her. Besides, the Holdridges were not 
 by any means people of note. 
 
 " Her mother gave her all the position she has," 
 said Scorch, a cynical old snob of a club-man, to 
 me one evening at the Metropolitan. " It 's very 
 funny how that Holdridge woman got about. I 
 remember perfectly when it first happened. It 
 was all on account of her diplomatic piety." 
 
 " What are you saying ? " I exclaimed with a 
 burst of laughter in spite of myself. 
 
 " Fact, I assure you, Manhattan," said my bitter 
 
 companion. " She secured a pew in Dr. Z 's 
 
 fashionable church on the avenue. She was 
 enormously devote; in this way she aroused in- 
 terest among certain patrician pew-holders. Her 
 next move was to establish a Bible-class for little 
 girls. She was very particular what little girls 
 reaped the benefit of her scriptural teachings. At 
 first the thing was rather a fiasco. The swells 
 were puzzled; they did n't know just what to 
 make of it. They found themselves attacked from 
 a totally new quarter. People had ' got in ' by 
 almost every conceivable method except this. If 
 it was a ruse de guerre^ it was horrible ; and, if it 
 
A PILLAR OF VIRTUE. 241 
 
 was n't, then the suspicion of its being so was 
 shamefully unjust. After a little demur, they sur- 
 rendered. Mrs. Holdridge and piety and the Bible- 
 classes won the day. This was about ten years 
 ago. Lilian was only eight or nine then ; but be- 
 fore she was three years older she had a lot of 
 ' dear little intimate friends,' as her mamma used 
 to call them. They were all selected with an im- 
 mense prudence. No English duchess, presiding 
 over the list of Almack's, was ever more careful 
 than Mrs. Holdridge with the members-elect of 
 her holy re-unions." Here my friend repressed a 
 yawn. " Well, she did it," he continued, " and 
 that 's the whole story. Her scholars have all 
 grown up, and the saintly Lilian has grown up 
 with them, and is lancee. Nothing is given that 
 they don't get cards for, mamma and daughter. 
 There is n't any papa, you know." 
 
 " Mrs. Holdridge is a widow ? " 
 
 " Yes ; she has been one since the Flood. No- 
 body ever knew her spouse. It is darkly mur- 
 mured that he once kept a gentlemen's furnishing- 
 store in Fulton Street. But this may be only the 
 slanderous coinage of some infidel brain. Perhaps 
 it was started by the aggrieved parent of some 
 little girl who could n't get into the aristocratic 
 Bible-class." 
 
 I laughed once more, against my will, as the lazy 
 insolence of Scorch has so often made me. "Mam- 
 ma's occupation must be gone at present," I 
 
242 SOCIAL SILHOUETTES. 
 
 " Her real occupation 's begun," replied Scorch. 
 " Now she 's going to marry off her girl. But as 
 she has n't got any money to speak of, and never 
 had any real position to speak of, she still keeps 
 up her monstrous virtue to give herself an indi- 
 viduality among the other dowagers. She winked 
 an eyelid to me to-day in the park, and I lifted 
 my whip-hand just three inches. That 's the way 
 Piety and Vice bow to each other. We do it four 
 or five times a week. She disapproves of me, and 
 I abominate her. She thinks I 'm a reprobate, be- 
 cause I sit up all night here in the card-room now 
 and then ; and I think her a horrid old arch-hypo- 
 crite, and one of the most venomous gossips in 
 town besides. That 's the way we stand." Here 
 Scorch drew out his watch, and rose. " Halloo ! " 
 he added, " it 's euchre-time. I hope talking to 
 you '11 bring me luck to-night, Mark ; for, by Jove ! 
 they cleaned me out of three hundred the last time 
 I played." 
 
 Scorch's comments were by no means my rea- 
 son for wishing not to know Lilian Holdridge's 
 mother. My card-loving friend never has a good 
 word for living mortal, and not seldom wags his 
 cruel tongue about dead ones as well. Yet it was 
 impossible to move in the same general set with 
 Mrs. Holdridge and not discover that she was 
 a person who not only assumed a vast personal 
 morality, but sat in perpetual judgment upon the 
 deeds and misdeeds of her contemporaries. 
 
 Still, it was written that I should know her; 
 
A PILLAR OF VIRTUE. 243 
 
 and I soon discovered that she herself, as one 
 might say, had so written it. She always made it 
 a rule to know, if possible, the gentlemen whom 
 her daughter met in society. I confess, there 
 was a tang of impudence in this pronunciamento 
 which stirred my spleen. 
 
 " You remind me of a certain gentleman whom 
 both of us know, Mrs. Holdridge," I said after 
 my presentation, " and who never permits either of 
 his two extremely plain daughters to walk in the 
 street unattended by a maid." 
 
 She raised her glossy black eyebrows, indicating 
 puzzlement. " I do not understand you," she said. 
 
 Her voice had a cold ring at all times, and 
 was a trifle higher than the customary tone in 
 which even Americam ladies talk. She was in 
 every way the opposite of her lovely, blond, mild- 
 mannered daughter ; and yet a vague resemblance, 
 as so often happens in these cases, betrayed the 
 relationship. She had a matronly figure, and 
 strong, severe, almost commanding features. It 
 was a perfectly uncompromising countenance ; its 
 arched nose, keen, large black eyes, thin, flexible 
 lips, and somewhat acute chin, expressed determi- 
 nation, energy, austerity. Whether or no from 
 some peculiarly erect mode of holding herself, she 
 seemed at nearly all times to be more clearly 
 defined against her background than most other 
 women. Her costume was rich but plain ; it 
 would be hard to tell just how she managed to 
 combine so much richness with so much plainness. 
 
244 SOCIAL SILHOUETTES. 
 
 I had already, after this brief meeting, begun to 
 account for that whispered nickname, " the pillar 
 of virtue," by which not a few of the merry-mak- 
 ing throng had recently designated her. 
 
 "My parallel was rather an obscure one," I now 
 said. " Let me explain it." 
 
 " Be good enough to do so," said Mrs. Holdridge. 
 In such a voice she might have asked some pupil 
 of her previous Bible-class, "How many sons had 
 Noah ? " or, " State what was the calamity which 
 befell Jonah." 
 
 " The explanation is simple," I returned. " Pru- 
 dence prompts Mr. D to protect his daughters 
 
 in a case where prudence seems especially need- 
 less, since instances are rare here of a lady being 
 insulted, or even annoyed, in our public streets. 
 Equally, if you will pardon my saying so, I 
 should think there was an overplus of prudence in 
 taking such extreme care as to what gentlemen 
 your charming daughter may meet at entertain- 
 ments like the present, where doubt of any gentle- 
 man's fitness for her acquaintanceship is to some- 
 what undervalue the good faith of your host." 
 
 I spoke very quietly, and with as courteous an 
 accent as I could employ; but I saw that my 
 words dealt a sting, and I did not at all regret this 
 result. 
 
 "Has it occurred to you that I might have 
 other than prudential reasons for wishing to know 
 Lilian's male friends ? " she inquired with rather 
 a wintry smile. 
 
A PILLAR OF VIRTUE. 245 
 
 " That is the view I took of your attitude," I 
 said. " But, of course, it is useless for me to add 
 that Miss Holdridge's admirers must always con- 
 gratulate themselves upon the rule you have set, 
 whatever its origin." 
 
 " I have heard that you can turn a compliment 
 neatly, Mr. Manhattan," she answered. She 
 laughed as she spoke, but there was still frost in 
 her voice and her look. " To be frank with you, I 
 do not wish that Lilian should meet every gentle- 
 man now in society. Or, rather, if she meets cer- 
 tain of them, I prefer that there should be no 
 intimacy. My ground and I take pride in ad- 
 mitting it is entirely a moral ground." 
 
 " Ah ? " I said, biting my mustache. 
 
 " Yes truly, yes. The habits, tendencies, oc- 
 cupations of some young men of the day distress 
 and shock me. I have always been very particu- 
 lar with Lilian. I do not wish to set myself up as 
 a preacher of decorum far be it from me, Mr. 
 Manhattan, to assume any such pharisaical part. 
 But if society is not built upon a sound, religious, 
 reputable basis, it surely behooves every mother 
 to use great care in watching the interests and 
 welfare of her child. Now, I know I positively 
 know that lines of conduct are pursued by girls 
 of the present time which it would break my 
 heart if I thought my dear child could ever fail to 
 shrink from." 
 
 " I should be very sorry to find myself on the 
 list of your aversions," I now said. 
 
246 SOCIAL SILHOUETTES. 
 
 " Oh, but you are not ! pray, do not for an in- 
 stant think so." 
 
 "But I am very much afraid that I am not 
 built upon a sound, religious, and reputable basis." 
 
 The " pillar of virtue " shook her glossy black 
 head quite seriously. " Ah, do not jest upon such 
 a subject ! " she admonished, with what struck me 
 as the most irritating and ill-timed patronage. " I 
 "have heard if you will excuse my saying it on 
 so short an acquaintance that you sometimes 
 show sympathy with those dreadful atheistical 
 writers, I scarcely know their names, even, 
 the Free-thinkers, I mean, who wish to do away 
 with all religion, and tell us that we were origi- 
 nally monkeys, and that, instead of being made by 
 our Lord in seven days, the world has been grad- 
 ually developing for millions and millions of years, 
 and that miracles like the turning of water into 
 wine were impossible and never took place, and 
 Oh, my dear Dr. Fossilcreed ! what a surprise to 
 meet you here to-night ! I thought you had quite 
 given up going into the gay world." 
 
 While these latter words of effusive welcome 
 were being addressed to the stately white-neck- 
 clothed divine, Dr. Fossilcreed, I took the chances 
 of dexterous retreat. All Scorch's past acerbity 
 of comment regarding "the pillar of virtue" 
 seemed to me, just then, literal truth. At the 
 same time I could not, without injustice, rob Mrs. 
 Holdridge of sincerity. This did not prevent her 
 from being very disagreeable : so many people are 
 
A PILLAR OF VIRTUE. 247 
 
 that with entire sincerity. I could not denounce 
 her, however much I disliked her, as a hypocrite. 
 It was not necessary for her to be one in order to 
 be almost repulsive in my sight. We have all 
 known people who possess the courage of their 
 opinions. She appeared to possess not only the 
 courage, but the arrogance and presumption, of 
 hers. The truth is, I fear, she had touched me in 
 rather a sore spot when she had begun to assail 
 me with the usual cudgel-flourish of bigoted igno- 
 rance. 
 
 As the season grew older, this lady became more 
 and more unpopular. It began to be discovered 
 that her "moral" views on most points took the 
 form of most assiduous and unremitting scandals. 
 There were several powerful dames in the world 
 of fashion whom her virtue had appalled into a 
 loyal friendship, and these she induced to adopt 
 measures of strictness and punctilio which I am 
 sure they would not have dreamed of but for her 
 puritanic counsellings. There is no doubt that 
 she maintained a kind of position by this course. 
 She managed to make herself hated, but she also 
 managed to make herself feared. I believe it is 
 Balzac who somewhere says, " Un pouvoir impune- 
 ment brave toucJie a sa ruine;" and Mrs. Holdridge, 
 who had now undoubtedly become a power, had 
 never thus far been braved with impunity. She 
 was instrumental in causing more than one young 
 man to be actually dropped from the ordinary vis- 
 iting-list. It is said that she employed a little 
 
248 SOCIAL SILHOUETTES. 
 
 corps of detectives who reported to her the pecca- 
 dilloes of their male friends ; and a witty young 
 merry-maker at length changed the mode of re- 
 ferring to her as the "pillar of virtue " by one night 
 mentioning her as " the police headquarters." 
 
 To her own sex she was equally merciless. And 
 yet it soon was apparent to me that her covert at- 
 tacks were never made against any one, man or 
 woman, whose place in life was high and assured. 
 By this time I had nourished decided doubts of 
 her sincerity. Besides, I had grown to be quite 
 intimate with her lovable and almost infantile 
 daughter. Poor Lilian was unquestionably perse- 
 cuted, and stood in immense awe of her mother. 
 Toward the latter part of January she had got to 
 know my friend, Tom Abernethy, very well indeed, 
 and I more than half suspected that the two 
 young people were genuinely in love with one 
 another. 
 
 Tom was in every way a desirable match for 
 such a girl as Lilian Holdridge. He was doing 
 fairly well in his business as a cotton-broker ; he 
 came of an excellent family ; he was good-looking, 
 cultivated, and of a rarely genial disposition ; there 
 was, in short, nothing matrimonially against him, 
 and (although he was not what calculating ambi- 
 tion would call a great parti) there stood a good 
 deal definitely in his favor. 
 
 But Mrs. Holdridge, just when his attentions be- 
 came marked and pointed, chose to lay upon them 
 her parental veto. I saw that Tom was miserable; 
 
A PILLAR OF VIRTUE. 249 
 
 and the pain which it now cost Lilian to front the 
 gayeties of her first season was not hidden from 
 me, though she tried hard to let no one dis- 
 cern it. 
 
 "Tom," I said to my old classmate at Harvard 
 one evening, while we sat in a corner of the club 
 together, "you 're gloomy as a sexton, and of course 
 I know why." There is a certain, abruptness, a 
 sudden cleaving of the ceremonious ice, as it were, 
 which, between such friends as Tom and I, serves 
 better than the most careful and guarded approach. 
 Tom turned and looked a hand-clasp at me with 
 his mellow gray eyes. "You like the girl," I went 
 on, with the large recklessness, now, of one who 
 has made a successful coup de phrase, "and I'm 
 nearly sure she likes you." 
 
 "She does, Mark," whispered Tom with an 
 excited flutter in his throat that I had never ob- 
 served there before. 
 
 " Ah ! I suppose you have it from the best of 
 all authorities," I said. 
 
 Well, yes." 
 
 "And the old lady refuses her consent?" 
 
 "Point-blank." 
 
 "Have you any idea why? Have any of her 
 myrmidons seen you drinking before a bar, or play- 
 ing billiards here after twelve ? " 
 
 I had never known Tom's face so cloudy (and I 
 have witnessed him during the horrors of exami- 
 nation day at college more than once) as when 
 he made an inclination of the head toward a rather 
 distant doorway, and answered : 
 
250 SOCIAL SILHOUETTES. 
 
 "Here comes Mrs. Holdridge's reason. What 
 do you think of it?" 
 
 I understood in a flash. The Honorable Rodney 
 Blantyre had just entered the room where we sat. 
 He had been here about a month. He was the third 
 or fourth son of the Earl of Dundalk, and he was 
 understood to be the possessor of a large income, 
 derived from some maternal branch of his ancient 
 Irish family. He had come here to shoot buffalo in 
 the Far West ; but he had stopped in New York, 
 never getting any farther. He was declared to 
 have been greatly captivated by the young ladies 
 of New York, and I have no doubt (with that 
 passion for marrying into noble foreign families 
 which casts so dismal a slur upon our republi- 
 can name) the young ladies of New York had 
 treated him much more cordially than those of 
 England. He did not look as if he deserved to be 
 treated well by any kind of young lady. He had 
 a beardless, mindless, inane face, a very receding 
 forehead, and a limp, shambling figure. I had once 
 sat next him at a dinner-party, and recalled what 
 he had said to me as the most utter stupidity. I 
 have met so many manly, charming, and brilliant 
 Irishmen in my life, that I now feel almost like 
 apologizing to them for this record of Rodney 
 Blantyre's nationality. 
 
 Yes, the fiat of Mrs. Holdridge was quite explain- 
 able now. Lord Dundalk's son had of late been 
 paying rather conspicuous court to Miss Lilian. 
 Affairs, as I soon learned from Tom, were even 
 
A PILLAR OF VIRTUE. 251 
 
 more serious. He had asked the girl in marriage 
 of her mother, after true foreign fashion. 
 
 But for once Lilian had made a firm stand. Her 
 last interview with Tom had been a heart-breaking 
 one. It was the old story, that is yet forever new. 
 I thought it all over after Tom had made me his 
 full confidence that night. I wondered if I could 
 do anything. Perseus slew the Gorgon, but could 
 I overthrow " the pillar of virtue " ? I really loved 
 Tom Abernethy, and my feelings toward Lilian 
 were as tenderly respectful a.s any that I had ever 
 borne for living woman. 
 
 " Go and have a talk with Mrs. Holdridge," I 
 counselled Tom. " Show her that the course of 
 conduct which she is now pursuing makes all her 
 past piety and morality a sham and a falsehood. 
 But show this with self-control, always remember- 
 ing that, whatever she may he, you are a gentleman, 
 born and bred." 
 
 Tom took my advice. . . . "It's no use," he said 
 to me three or four days later. " I kept my temper, 
 but she was hard as a rock. She regards her con- 
 duct from a purely moral stand-point. She says it 
 is her duty, as a loving mother, to make Lilian's 
 future as bright as possible. She presumed to tell 
 me that she considered that booby a young man of 
 stainless character and much intellectual promise." 
 
 I took Tom's arm, and we walked together a 
 good many times up and down the large hall of the 
 Metropolitan Club. After we had finished talking, 
 Torn bad made up his mind. 
 
252 SOCIAL SILHOUETTES. 
 
 That night the Chambeiiaynes gave a great ball 
 in their fine new house near Central Park. It was 
 a mansion full of lovely alcoves, and alluring, 
 retired little nooks. I managed to get Lilian and 
 Tom into one of these, and kept guard upon them. 
 I made sure that they had a good hour together. 
 I saw the Honorable Rodney Blantyre move about 
 the drawing-rooms a good many times with Mrs. 
 Holdridge, august and imposing, on his lank arm. 
 It was a great crush, and they were looking for 
 their lost Lilian. Once Mrs. Holdridge fixed her 
 black eyes upon me. I bowed to her with a some- 
 what skilful blending of suavity and innocence. 
 When the occasion was propitious, I rustled a blue 
 satin curtain, and Tom and Lilian glided safely 
 forth, the latter with a pink spot in each cheek, and 
 eyes full of a dewy sparkle. 
 
 That was Wednesday night. On Friday morning 
 Lilian left her home, and joined Tom and myself 
 at young Mrs. Paul Madison's pretty basement 
 house in Twenty-Third Street. We made a very 
 quiet wedding-party, and a very expeditious one. 
 The whole thing was over in less than an hour ; 
 we had driven to church, accomplished our dark, 
 clandestine deed, and returned again by about one 
 o'clock that morning. 
 
 And then, according to a pre-arranged plan, I 
 started for Mrs. Holdridge's house. It had been 
 decided that I should break the awful tidings. I 
 was perfectly acquiescent. I don't think I ever 
 performed any task with a more complete willing- 
 ness. 
 
A PILLAR OF VIRTUE. 253 
 
 Mrs. Holdridge was at home, and received me 
 smilingly. "I come from your daughter," I said; 
 and then, without pausing more than an instant, I 
 told of Lilian's marriage to Tom. 
 
 She grew white as death while she heard me. I 
 thought at first that she was going to swoon ; 
 but here I was disagreeably in error. The pallor 
 meant merely rage. Her black eyes shot out lam- 
 bent fire. She rose and regarded me for a minute 
 or two in silence. And then she poured forth upon 
 me a stream of wrathful invective, so monstrously 
 vulgar and unladylike that it nearly took my 
 breatli away with sheer amazement. 
 
 I will not write a word that she said. There 
 are women who dwell amid the worst surround- 
 ings of uneducated poverty who would have been 
 ashamed to show such rabid anger as this pious 
 lady showed then, or to speak some of the sen- 
 tences that she then spoke. 
 
 " Scorch was right," I thought as I watched her 
 and listened to her. 
 
 When she sank back into her seat, quivering 
 and colorless, I felt it my turn to rise. 
 
 "You wanted to make your lovely daughter 
 marry a titled fool," I said, " in place of the good, 
 worthy fellow whom she has married. If I aided 
 her and him, I am not at all ashamed of it. While 
 all that you have just uttered is still fresh in my 
 memory, I shall write it down, and take pains to 
 acquaint with the contents of my manuscript some 
 of the ladies whose children you once permitted to 
 
254 SOCIAL SILHOUETTES. 
 
 enter your very select Bible-class. Good-after- 
 noon, madam." 
 
 But I never did anything of the sort, and never 
 intended to do it. Mrs. Holdridge stood in mortal 
 terror of me for several weeks, as I could well see 
 whenever we met ; and finally, after having become 
 reconciled with her happy daughter, she wrote me 
 one day a letter full of contrite and even suppli- 
 catory fervor. I answered the letter briefly and 
 coldly, but with a distinct assurance that my 
 threat would never be kept. 
 
 She still has her believers, her supporters, her 
 eulogists. One often sees her name on charitable 
 committees but always where the other names 
 are those of ladies whom " everybody visits." 
 
 Scorch was balefully gleesome over the elope- 
 ment. " Serves her right," he chuckled to me at 
 the club. "She wanted to get over to London, 
 you know, and swell it as a connection of Lord 
 Dundalk." 
 
 " But all is not lost," I said. " She can still 
 remain here and be a pillar of virtue." 
 
 "Yes, a brass one," said old Scorch in his 
 throat. 
 
TEE YOUNG MAN WHO PUSHES BIS WAT. 255 
 
 XX. 
 
 THE YOUNG MAN WHO PUSHES HIS WAY. 
 
 " NEW YORK society is so monotonous ! " said 
 Miss Ella Carlisle to me one evening. " I do so 
 long to meet somebody who is fresh and original ! " 
 
 Ella Carlisle is just the girl who might express 
 such a sentiment. The Carlisles are Pennsylvania 
 people, who have got into New York society 
 through their reputed millions in coal, and who 
 have spent at least five good years abroad. Miss 
 Ella is the veriest type of that young American 
 girl who has been everywhere throughout Europe, 
 and who has returned to America with added re- 
 spect for her own country. She is pretty, with her 
 black eyes, like jet beads, set in a low, broad fore- 
 head, over which the silky auburn hair droops in 
 frizzled abundance. She has a very nasal voice, a 
 very lovely figure, and a careless, daring, uncon- 
 ventional manner that is an acknowledged success. 
 Everybody likes her, and everybody disapproves 
 of her. She has made herself a sort of power 
 through universal disapproval. She is considered 
 very bad style, and yet nobody ever tells her that 
 she is so not even her most intimate feminine 
 friends. Of course, from the stand-point of pure 
 
256 SOCIAL SILHOUETTES. 
 
 money, she is a great match. But it is not solely 
 this that makes her so decided a belle. I suppose 
 it is because she is so internationally amusing. 
 Nearly all that she says, in her sharp, light, brisk 
 way, has a sort of patriotic sting in it. They tell 
 me that she refused a young duke in England be- 
 cause he presumed to sneer at America. It would 
 be just like her to do so. She is always waving 
 her national flag as other women flirt their fans. 
 I think her vulgar, and yet I like her. That is 
 just what everybody else does, I find. They all 
 think her vulgar, and yet they all like her. 
 
 " In England," she now continued, " I met so 
 many original people ! I dare say I did n't go into 
 the swell set. It's very hard to do that, you 
 know, the English put on such awful airs. They 
 are like their houses in Piccadilly and Pall Mall, 
 not a decoration showing ; everything as plain as a 
 pipe-stem, but an awful amount of quiet conceit 
 and self-importance inside." 
 
 "All this," I answered quietly, "is apropos of 
 my dislike for Mr. Rodney Clamp ? " 
 
 " Of course it is ! " exclaimed Miss Carlisle. 
 " Rodney Clamp is original. He goes about New 
 York without an English drawl, which is saying 
 a good deal nowadays, and with a conspicuous 
 amount of brains, which is saying still more." 
 
 " But he is detested," I objected, " and for an 
 excellent reason. He makes capital out of society. 
 He writes for newspapers all sorts of gossip con- 
 cerning the people who admit him to their enter- 
 
THE YOUNG MAN WHO PUSHES HIS WAT. 257 
 
 tainments. It is said that he lives in this way. 
 No one knows how else he lives, if he does not live 
 in this way." 
 
 Miss Carlisle tossed her head. The gesture re- 
 minded me of a mettlesome colt's. "Who cares 
 how he lives ? I 'm sure / don't. Let him live as 
 he pleases." Here the young lady fixed her eyes 
 upon me with an impudent seriousness. " You are 
 English dreadfully English," she affirmed. " I 
 don't like you for being so. I don't mean that I 
 dislike you for being other things. That is why 
 I do like you because you are other things be- 
 sides being English." 
 
 This remarkable piece of grammar interested 
 while it perplexed me. Its inaccuracy, however, 
 was not hard of comprehension. I hastened to 
 reply : 
 
 " Only three months of my life, Miss Carlisle, 
 were ever passed in England. But if it is English 
 to feel disgusted with a person of shocking style, 
 then I must plead guilty to your indictment." 
 
 My companion laughed. " Never mind how 
 much of English life you 've seen ! " she declared. 
 " You 're full of British propriety. Now, I hate 
 British propriety as much as I hate Britain itself. 
 The idea of a country where you can't get ice- 
 water ! And no soda-water fountains ! And then 
 just think of their horrid little railway com- 
 partments, and their locomotives with silly, thin 
 screams, instead of our splendid, noisy engines! 
 They 're so sluggish over there ! They Ve got no 
 
258 SOCIAL SILHOUETTES. 
 
 go not a bit. And their hotels ! They have n't 
 one that can touch our Fifth Avenue, or Bruns- 
 wick, or Brevoort! But, as I said, their best 
 people are all so tame and un-go-aheadative I " 
 
 "Did you say that?" I asked. I felt that she 
 had never used the last word until now, for its 
 amazing novelty would surely have caused me to 
 remember it. 
 
 However, this bitter outburst had no concern 
 with Mr. Rodney Clamp. And it is of Mr. Rod- 
 ley Clamp that I now propose to make disclos- 
 ures. I had already met the young gentleman. 
 He was not more than five and twenty years old. 
 He had a composed, sedate face, a slim fringe of 
 flaxen mustache, a somewhat dull gray eye, and 
 a neat, compact figure. He was thoroughly com- 
 monplace in appearance. You would never have 
 given him a second thought if you had met him in 
 a throng. And yet, the moment you heard him 
 speak, you had a sense of aggression, of assertive- 
 ness, of impudence. I constantly encountered 
 him, and constantly shunned him. But shunning 
 him was of no avail. Whom he knew he cultivated, 
 solicited, and buttonholed. There was no escap- 
 ing him. He held you with his lazy and opaque 
 eye, as the Ancient Mariner used to do with his 
 glittering one. He somehow had the sinister art 
 of paralyzing my desires to treat him rudely. Just 
 when I was on the point of giving him astern rebuff, 
 he would say something so amazingly self-confi- 
 dent and audacious that T forgot indignation in 
 sheer surprise. 
 
THE YOUNG MAN WHO PUSHES HIS WAY. 259 
 
 There was no doubt that Mr. Clamp pushed his 
 way everywhere. It was necessary for him to 
 push stoutly, too, since he usually met the solid 
 insistence of disapproval and dislike. But the 
 steadiness with which he pushed was phenomenal. 
 It never relaxed or wavered. It was like the reso- 
 lute motion of a heavy barge through a creek full 
 of obstructive logs. 
 
 I have few hatreds, and not many aversions; 
 but it is safe to say that I execrated Mr. Rodney 
 Clamp. His connection with the " society col- 
 umn " of the newspapers had always struck me as 
 specially odious. I considered him as the worst 
 type of the American adventurer ; he had not even 
 the saving grace of suavity. A little plausible 
 adroitness might have made him far more endura- 
 ble. As it was, he went to work rough-handed 
 and dogged. He seemed to mutter between set 
 teeth, " I will get myself received ; " and he un- 
 questionably succeeded. His unpopularity was 
 something pitiable ; but he bore himself as though 
 quite unconscious of it. I suspected that he se- 
 cretly enjoyed it as a grim and solemn joke. 
 
 " Pretty mixed here to-night, Manhattan, is n't 
 it? " he said to me a few evenings after my con- 
 versation with the Europe-hating Miss Carlisle 
 regarding him. We were both guests at a large 
 ball given by a certain family whose name there is 
 no need of recalling. I suppose that the scathing 
 phrase of "new people" applied pertinently 
 enough to our entertainers. I had not given the 
 
260 SOCIAL SILHOUETTES. 
 
 matter of their recent social origin a thought my- 
 self; I had come there to meet two or three good 
 friends of the other sex. I did not care whether 
 the ball was mixed or not ; and I did not at all 
 relish the idea of Mr. Clamp informing me so. 
 
 " I am not in the habit," I now replied off-hand- 
 edly, " of saying or thinking hard things about 
 my hosts and hostesses." 
 
 " That 's a pretty good snub," said my assailant 
 in his slow, torpid way. He then laughed, and it 
 was always, when he laughed, as though this sound 
 were made without the slightest real mirth ; the 
 clatter of peas in a tin measure would have had 
 quite as much human significance. "I say !" lie 
 went on imperturbably, " won't you introduce me 
 to Miss Westchester ? I 'd be very much obliged 
 if you would." 
 
 I felt nonplussed in spite of myself. Miss 
 Westchester was a reigning belle ; she usually 
 chose her acquaintances with a good deal of saucy 
 arrogance ; she was permitted all sorts of caprices 
 because of her beauty and personal fascination. I 
 felt sure that she would not desire to know Mr. 
 Clamp, and that after I had obtained her sanction 
 of the introduction she would regard me as having 
 inflicted upon her an undeserved annoyance. But 
 I introduced Mr. Clamp, nevertheless. I felt that 
 he was gaining his point in a coldly reckless way ; 
 that he was using me ; that he was giving me the 
 choice between a definite insolence to him and a 
 courteous concession. I knew perfectly well that 
 
THE YOUNG MAN WHO PUSHES HIS WAY. 261 
 
 lie would not much have minded my being rude, 
 and that he reckoned, so to speak, upon my aver- 
 sion toward any rudeness. Just so far as my wish 
 to behave like a gentleman would go, he was stol- 
 idly willing to employ and profit by it. My prin- 
 ciples and theories were so many rungs of a ladder 
 to him. As long as the ladder held out, he would 
 climb it, determinedly and nimbly. If I had con- 
 sidered him in any sense a good fellow, if I had 
 not thought him a person whose blood was ichor 
 and whose views and tenets were wholty coarse 
 and ignoble, I should have looked on his request 
 as one to be granted with the best good will. 
 
 "Your friend has won a victory over me," I said 
 a little later to Miss Carlisle, who chanced to be 
 among the assembled company. And when I had 
 explained myself, Miss Carlisle gave her pretty 
 head a decisive toss, and exclaimed : 
 
 " Why on earth should he not ask you to present 
 him to Miss Westchester ? " 
 
 " Oh, for no reason on earth," I conceded. 
 " True, I scarcely know him. However, it makes 
 no difference. If you do not choose to understand, 
 you will not, I suppose." 
 
 " Understand ! " echoed Miss Carlisle. " I under- 
 stand excellently. And yet you maintain that you 
 are not cut after an English pattern." 
 
 " Oh, come ! " I said. " Leave poor England 
 alone. You can't, though, I am afraid. You are 
 always making occasions to fling a slur at her. If 
 one should talk of the weather in America to you, 
 
262 SOCIAL SILHOUETTES. 
 
 it would be an excuse for reviling the London 
 fogs." 
 
 Miss Carlisle made a grimace. "The London 
 fogs ! " she exclaimed. " Ugh ! how loathsome 
 they are ! I hope you don't compare Mr. Clamp to 
 one ! " 
 
 " Well," I laughed, "the comparison is tempting. 
 He seems desirous of penetrating everywhere." 
 
 My harmless bit of repartee was quite ignored. 
 Miss Carlisle had found an opportunity of reviling 
 England, and that was enough to make her forget 
 even Mr. Rodney Clamp. I listened as politely as 
 I could to the tirade that now left her charming, 
 rose-tinted lips. " They presume to compare their 
 Hyde Park with our Central Park ! " she excitedly 
 shrilled, among other explosive sentences. " It is 
 so nonsensical! A flat piece of stupid country 
 contrasted with a beautiful rolling landscape ! 
 And their horrid, grim houses of Parliament too, 
 what are they beside our magnificent marble 
 Capitol at Washington? And their Thames beside 
 our Hudson ! a muddy little stream put on an 
 equality with a glorious, noble river ! " 
 
 It was amusing enough to hear the fervid dis- 
 course of this impassioned patriot. She was inter- 
 esting as the extreme reverse type of the Anglo- 
 maniac ; she once more represented the sharpest 
 possible re-action against that worship of English 
 ideas which has so often been charged against our 
 people. But her vehemence did not at all concern 
 Mr. Rodney Clamp, whom I had begun to regard 
 
THE YOUNG MAN WHO PUSHES HIS WAY. 263 
 
 as a purely American institution, not in any way 
 to be dealt with from an international stand-point. 
 
 The next encounter between Mr. Clamp and 
 myself took place in Fifth Avenue one afternoon, 
 just as I was making my way toward the Metro- 
 politan Club. He joined me, saluted me in his 
 dull, determined way, and, before I knew it, had 
 asked me to propose him as a member of tlxe club 
 itself. 
 
 "I can get Frank Hackensack to second me, 
 I 'm nearly sure," he pitilessly proceeded. " I 'd 
 like to be in there, and I don't know any one with 
 more influence than you 've got to give me the 
 right start. Come, now, what do you say?" 
 
 What could I say ? There is no exaggeration in 
 stating that this speech caused me to tingle with 
 dislike. I fixed my eyes upon Mr. Clamp's sedate, 
 neutral face. I hated what I had to answer, and 
 I hated him still more for having forced me to 
 answer it. 
 
 " The simple truth is," I said, " that you have 
 made enemies on the governing committee of the 
 Metropolitan. Or, if you have done nothing to 
 make them, Mr. Clamp, you are believed to have 
 done a good deal." 
 
 "What do you mean?" he asked in his hard, 
 smooth, repressed way, pausing, and thus com- 
 pelling me to pause as well. 
 
 I spoke now with what was perhaps a pardon- 
 able impatience. "I mean," was my somewhat 
 sharp reply, "that you are credited with the author- 
 
264 SOCIAL SILHOUETTES. 
 
 ship of certain very bitter personal comments upon 
 more than one of these gentlemen, in the so-called 
 social columns of a particular New York jour- 
 nal." 
 
 His dull eyes avoided mine as I finished, but he 
 laughed his chilly, sombre laugh. " Oh ! " he said, 
 "if you feel that way about it, I won't trouble 
 you. Good-afternoon." 
 
 I saw him talking with Miss Carlisle at the 
 Effinghams' party that same evening. As I passed 
 them both, I felt sure, from the way his look fol- 
 lowed me, that I was the subject of their converse. 
 A little later, when he had taken his leave of Miss 
 Carlisle, I joined her. 
 
 "I suppose your friend, Mr. Clamp," I said, "has 
 been telling you that I treated him badly this 
 afternoon." 
 
 "Do you say that from a guilty conscience?" 
 she asked with a quick, challenging little frown. 
 
 "Not at all," I answered. "You and Clamp 
 seem to be so lie's, however, that I fancied he had 
 confided to you that he forced me into giving him 
 a rebuff." 
 
 "Well, he did say something of the matter," 
 assented Miss Carlisle. "You accused him of 
 writing personalities in the newspapers. But, 
 good gracious ! what if he does ? Men do it in 
 England, and yet belong to the good London clubs, 
 go to lots of swell houses, hold their own nearly 
 everj^where." 
 
 " It is always poor England with you," I mur- 
 
THE YOUNG MAN WHO PUSHES HIS WAY. 265 
 
 mured, smiling. "You seem to live in a perpet- 
 ual atmosphere of transatlantic comparisons. I 
 am sure I should think the persons to whom you 
 refer no less objectionable for being English." 
 
 " Oh, not a bit of it ! " asseverated Miss Carlisle. 
 "If poor Mr. Clamp had come over here from 
 London, and said ' I farncy ' for ' I guess,' and 
 turned up his nose immensely at America, you 
 would" 
 
 But I was mercifully saved from listening further 
 to this incorrigible partisan; for just then two 
 gentlemen approached us, and, while they were 
 greeting my companion, I seized the chance of dis- 
 creetly if not valorously slipping away. 
 
 A few days later I happened to skim over the 
 columns of a well-known New York newspaper. 
 Under the heading of " society news," I read an 
 almost virulent paragraph concerning myself. It 
 called me a snob, a prig, an egotist, and a person 
 who had aims to become a member of the govern- 
 ing committee of the Metropolitan Club, which 
 would by no means encourage any such aspira- 
 tions on the part of this " conceited young Knick- 
 erbocker." 
 
 I immediately surmised the authorship of the 
 distressing lampoon ; and I was very angry. I 
 at once jumped into a cab, and drove to the edi- 
 torial office of the newspaper which had printed 
 the objectionable lines. The editor-in-chief received 
 me, and after an interview of a good hour I suc- 
 ceeded in getting at the positive truth. Mr. Rod- 
 
266 SOCIAL SILHOUETTES. 
 
 ney Clamp had wreaked his vulgar vengeance, just 
 as I had supposed. 
 
 That night I led the german at an entertainment 
 given by a relative of mine, young Mrs. Matchwell. 
 She had been Elsie Manhattan, and she had married 
 John Matchwell, an Englishman in a good ship- 
 ping-house here, and one of the best and kindest 
 fellows I know. Elsie, my third or fourth cousin, 
 is the most amiable and genial of young matrons. 
 I don't think there is any horrid imposition that 
 you could not put upon her with impunity. I 
 soon saw that Mr. Clamp was present among the 
 guests, and I made bold to inquire of my meek, 
 sweet kinswoman why she had asked him. 
 
 Elsie shook her flaxen head, and told me that 
 she had not consciously asked him. "You say that 
 his name is Clamp ? " she went on. " No, Mark, 
 I am quite sure that nobody sent in any request 
 for an invitation to a person of that name. A 
 number of invitations were desired of me, as is 
 usually the case. The gentleman came in with 
 Miss Carlisle. I think she must have brought him 
 ivithout an invitation." 
 
 " Really ? " I muttered under my mustache. 
 
 I sought Miss Carlisle quite promptly. " Can it 
 be possible," I said, " that you have brought Mr. 
 Clamp here without an invitation ? " 
 
 She gave a defiant little shrug of the shoulders, 
 but her face almost crimsoned as she did so. 
 
 "He he came with me," she began to stammer. 
 "I I did not imagine that I would be held to 
 
THE YOUNG MAN WHO PUSHES HIS WAY. 267 
 
 account for bringing him. In your beloved Eng- 
 land" 
 
 I shot in a quiet interruption here. "England 
 is not especially beloved of me," I said, " though 
 very far from hated. And if you mean to tell me 
 that what you have done in the case of Mr. Clamp 
 is done by English people of good standing, then 
 I must assure you of your mistake of your very 
 great mistake. As regards holding you to ac- 
 count, I have no intention of doing so. That 
 could be only a matter for our host and host- 
 ess." 
 
 I presently glided on, thanking my good stars that 
 I had committed no discourtesy in word or tone ; 
 for my anger was excessive, not to say desperate. 
 
 The abominable "push" -I almost shame to 
 call it "the American push" of this offensive 
 Clamp had risen before me in all its complete and 
 hideous crudity. I felt spurred by a desire to 
 humiliate and punish him. He deserved no mercy, 
 and I meant to give him none. 
 
 A little later I saw him. The rooms were by 
 no means crowded, and he was crossing one of 
 them as I approached him. He drew backward as 
 he perceived me, but I was soon face to face with 
 him. I at once addressed him without an instant 
 of hesitation. 
 
 " You have no right, sir, to be here," I said in 
 curt undertone. 
 
 He grew several shades paler. But a sullen, 
 spiteful look swiftly answered my own. " You 
 
268 SOCIAL SILHOUETTES. 
 
 have no right to tell me so," he muttered, equally 
 low of voice. 
 
 " Oh, yes, I have ! " was my reply. " Mrs. Match- 
 well is my relation, and has just informed me that 
 you came here without a card. Mr. Matchwell is 
 my friend, and will indorse whatever measures I 
 may take. What I desire is simply explained. It 
 is that you go up stairs, get your hat and coat, and 
 leave this house without the least delay." 
 
 " For for God's sake, don't send me away like 
 that ! " he faltered. His demeanor had suddenly 
 become abject. I saw the sweat glisten on his fore- 
 head. He glanced uneasily from side to side, as if 
 in mortal dread of observation. He looked like a 
 hunted thing at bay. "I I am engaged for the 
 german," he went on. "It it will ruin me if 
 you - let people know. And, after all, what 's 
 the odds ? I suppose you 're mad that I wrote 
 that paragraph in ' The Asteroid.' Well, I was 
 mad at you, or I would n't have written it. You 
 you 've got me in your power. But you 're far 
 ahead of me, you 're so much ahead of me that 
 you you should n't stoop to such small game as 
 I am ! I I 've got to push my way. Leave me 
 alone this time only this once and I I'll 
 promise I '11 never repeat the offence again. I '11 
 I '11 never mention your name in print as long 
 as I live. As I said, I T ve got to push my way. 
 I I give in that .1 've done wrong. You 've got 
 me where the hair's short, and I give in. Do let 
 me have a last chance ! You 've never had to push 
 
THE YOUNG MAN WHO PUSHES HIS WAT. 269 
 
 your way. You don't know what it is to want all 
 tliis sort of thing and have to struggle for it. You 
 were born to it, and I was n't. Those newspaper 
 articles are nearly all I have to live by. I grant 
 I had a grudge against you, but still it 's just that 
 sort of work that the editor of 'The Asteroid' likes 
 and wants. So, you see, I had a double tempta- 
 tion. But I promise you yes, I promise you 
 upon my word of honor that I will never" 
 
 I turned on my heel. I did not care to hear 
 what Mr. Rodney Clamp (the young man who 
 " pushed his way ") had to tell me about his 
 " word of honor." I felt shocked, disgusted, sick- 
 ened. And yet his miserable appeal had roused 
 my pity. I suppose it is absurd to mention pity 
 in connection with him, but I somehow could not 
 help feeling it. I thought of what hereditary and 
 circumstantial forces had gone to the making of 
 this human nuisance, who " pushed his way." 
 
 He never troubled me again; but he troubled 
 others. And when at last he came to public grief, 
 and fiery young Jack Nassau horsewhipped him 
 at the entrance of the Fifth Avenue Hotel, and 
 when everybody (even including his old supporter, 
 Miss Carlisle) had a contemptuous word for him, I 
 still retained my compassionate feeling. Indeed, 
 I continually realized and insisted that the times 
 in which we live are mainly responsible for such a 
 malign and darksome development as Mr. Clamp, 
 the young man who " pushes his way." 
 
270 SOCIAL SILHOUETTES. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 THE LADY WHO REFORMED. 
 
 I USED to say, when I first pecked the shell of 
 my hobbledehoyhood and went out into gay New 
 York society, that Julia Clymer was the nicest 
 girl in the whole world. This conviction remained 
 an article of faith with me for several years. You 
 might exhaust a copious list of adjectives in 
 searching for that which better expressed Miss 
 Julia's qualities than the plain and homely term of 
 " nice." Of course, her orbit was one of frivolity ; 
 but then, she appeared to make frivolity sensible. 
 She was garrulous and a little loud-voiced, as 
 nearly all American girls, when clever, are apt to 
 be. She moved and walked with a restlessness 
 that implied the nervous temperament. She was 
 exceedingly blond, and had eyes that were like 
 two great shining amethysts in their lucid and 
 lovely color. But I should not have called her 
 pretty. Her chin was a little too sharp for that, 
 and her cheek-bones rose a trifle too high. Her 
 arms were of awkward outline, and strongly in- 
 clined to redness. She was forever assailing them, 
 those poor arms, with a pathetic land of satire. 
 She would say to you, perchance, while you stood 
 
THE LADY WHO REFORMED, 271 
 
 beside her some evening at ball or party, "Do 
 you think my arms very dreadful to-night ? " 
 And when you responded with the most eager and 
 chivalrous of negatives, she would look at you 
 with a sceptical toss of the head, and perhaps ex- 
 claim, " No nonsense, now ! You know very well 
 that my unfortunate arms are a horror." But she 
 had an exquisite foot, slender, arched at the in- 
 step, and just small enough to harmonize with her 
 height and figure. And this foot, with a most 
 elastic and graceful tread, could glide over ball- 
 room floors in tireless activity. Miss Clymer was 
 passionately fond of dancing, and she danced with 
 wondrous elegance, buoyancy, and skill. 
 
 But this gift did not explain her popularity. I 
 do not know if any particular gift could be said to 
 explain it. Perhaps the secret lay in her extreme 
 worldliness having made her, after all, so little of 
 a real mondaine. She looked at you trustfully 
 with her amethyst eyes ; she made you think how 
 insincere other women were beside herself; she 
 impressed you as having a warm, large, sympa- 
 thetic heart, and a plenteous fund of common 
 sense. It is true that her conversation was 
 largely made up of sheer, unadulterated gossip ; 
 but then she gossiped, somehow, without the 
 touches of spleen, the mauvais langue, that so 
 many other women employ unconsciously. She 
 now and then gave me flashes of intellect too ; 
 she made me certain that she was capable of 
 insight, reflection, mature judgment. I sometimes 
 
272 SOCIAL SILHOUETTES. 
 
 had the idea that she was a girl who did every- 
 thing that she attempted thoroughly, and that in 
 playing the rdle of a fashionable idler she ac- 
 quitted herself to perfection within its narrow 
 limits through an instinct that whatever was worth 
 doing at all was worth doing well. It struck me, 
 at such times, that she could have done better and 
 higher things with an equal success. 
 
 She had no coquetries, no sly arts, no covert 
 methods of fascination. The beam of her gaze 
 was a direct one ; she possessed an almost provok- 
 ing candor, simplicity, innocence. She made open 
 avowal of her love for society. The most monoto- 
 nous male bore was sure of her courtesy. She 
 had her marked preferences, but she contrived 
 never to let these wound the unpreferred. I 
 should not use that term " contrived," for she con- 
 trived nothing. All was frank, spontaneous, vol- 
 untary with her. As a result, the most vicious 
 envier, the most malign scoffer, had for her no 
 weapon in his armory of spleens. Her smile was 
 magical : it blunted all the poniards of rancor. 
 
 New York that city which is the most careful 
 of all others in the world to ask your right to be 
 called aristocratic, because, of all very large cities, 
 it probably has the least right itself to think 
 about aristocracy at all New York, I say, forgot 
 to make an inquiry concerning the " position " of 
 Julia Clymer. For myself, I forgot to ask because 
 everybody else forgot. Possibly, if I had made 
 investigations, I might have hit upon a Poughkeep- 
 
THE LADY WHO REFORMED. 273 
 
 sie, an Amsterdam, or a Van Tassal, as one of' her 
 near relatives. But I am sure that such illustrious 
 kindred could have had nothing whatever to do 
 with her bright and genial supremacy. She was a 
 belle by a very sweet personal and presumptive 
 right. She went everywhere ; she knew every- 
 body. The careful dinner-givers constantly num- 
 bered her among their chosen guests ; the proudest 
 feminine leaders liked to have her seated beside 
 them in their opera-boxes. Her superiority of place 
 was astonishing, because she made no effort to se- 
 cure it. Her stamp of selection, of ultra-fineness, 
 of social rarity and importance, were still more 
 astonishing, for the reason that there were no half- 
 shunned, half-discountenanced people who could 
 lay one pang of hurt self-love to her account. 
 
 " I think Julia Clymer has mastered the secret 
 of how a woman can triumph socially," I once told 
 myself in a ruminative mood. " I don't know how 
 she has mastered it, but the result is certain. I 
 don't believe that she herself knows either. I 
 fancy it is more than half just there, that she 
 herself does not know either." 
 
 While I was abroad she married, and when I 
 returned I heard of this marriage. It had been 
 rather sudden. I asked people about it. The 
 conservatives lifted their brows and shrugged 
 their shoulders. The liberals (alas! I regret to 
 say, much fewer of number in New York society) 
 answered me with a few respectful facts.. I soon 
 gathered the truth. Miss Clymer had married 
 
274 SOCIAL SILHOUETTES. 
 
 " out of her set." She was living with her husband 
 at Yonkers; he had a small estate there. Her 
 wedding had been quiet ; she had sent many cards, 
 but had asked few guests. Her husband was a 
 lawyer, and had written a work on political econ- 
 omy several years ago. He was stated to be rather 
 plain of appearance ; it was hard to find any one 
 who really knew him. His name was Kingdon. 
 
 Another good year passed before I met Mrs. 
 Kingdon, ne Clymer. One evening, at a well- 
 known New York theatre, I chanced to occupy an 
 orchestra chair during the performance of a certain 
 play which had been damned by current criticism, 
 and which a very good and dear friend of mine 
 had written. I wanted to like the play, and per- 
 haps for this reason I did like the first two acts 
 of it much better than I would otherwise have 
 done. As the curtain fell for the second time, a 
 gentleman just in front of me spoke to a neighbor 
 with voice unduly and perhaps unwittingly raised. 
 The gentleman had what we call a Bohemian air ; 
 I have scarcely seen a more crumpled shirt-bosom 
 or a more murderously crimson necktie. 
 
 "What rubbish this piece is!" said the gentle- 
 man to his companion. "I always knew that 
 
 F had not a ray of dramatic talent. Why 
 
 could he not content himself with writing bad 
 
 verses and worse novels? But, no \ F stops at 
 
 nothing. His ambition is Napoleonic, and his abil- 
 ity is Tupperian. Don't let us wait for another act 
 of buncombe." 
 
THE LADY WHO REFORMED. 275 
 
 It was on my lips to declare, " By all means, do 
 not ! " for I have a deep and sound fund of loyalty 
 to my friends; and F 's placid scorn of his crit- 
 ics had long ago roused my admiration, while it 
 tempted my championship. I repressed the hostile 
 impulse, however, and turned with an exasperated 
 sigh to the person next me. It was a lady, and she, 
 too, had evidently caught the acrid outburst just in 
 front of her. A moment later I heard her say to 
 some one sitting on her right : 
 
 " How rare a virtue justice is ! Do you remem- 
 ber, Wallace, how delightfully clever I thought 
 Mr. F 's last novel?" 
 
 In another instant I had recognized Julia Cly- 
 mer. I am afraid that my glad surprise caused me 
 speedily to forget all defensive wrath concerning 
 my poor friend, F . She, in turn, was appar- 
 ently well pleased to discover that I was really I. 
 The critical gentleman with the fiery neck-gear 
 must have had vengeance visited upon him by our 
 many mutual sentences during the continuance 
 
 of F 's damned play. I saw him fidget and 
 
 look round towards us once or twice ; but, if he 
 had presumed to show any stouter annoyance, I 
 should doubtless have asked him, with sarcastic but 
 polite impudence, why he remained here to be 
 doubly bored. 
 
 Mrs. Kingdon was stopping in New York for a 
 few weeks. She and her husband had temporarily 
 deserted their Yonkers home for winter quarters 
 in town. Would I not come and see them at their 
 
276 SOCIAL SILHOUETTES. 
 
 little house in Thirty-Seventh Street? We would 
 have so many things to talk about ! I must 
 promise. 
 
 Of course I did promise. It was very pleasant 
 to resume my old acquaintance with the blithe, 
 unique Julia Clymer. Meanwhile she had pre- 
 sented me to her husband. I was not prepossessed 
 by Mr. Kingdon. His smooth, long, tranquil face 
 suggested to me a vast emotionless gravity, and 
 nothing more. Later on he impressed me less as 
 a man than as a kind of incarnate human silence. 
 I have nothing further to write regarding him per- 
 sonally. He may have been a very noteworthy 
 mental force, and I am inclined to believe that he 
 was. But I saw him only through his effects. I 
 saw what he had done to the woman whom he had 
 married. Like steam, electricity, or any natural 
 power which we gauge solely by its results, I 
 learned to feel for him a solid, wholesome respect. 
 
 The change from Julia Clymer to Mrs. Kingdon 
 simply astounded me. I shall never forget the 
 afternoon that I dropped into her pretty drawing- 
 room to drink tea with her. She was outwardly just 
 the same. She laughed, smiled, spoke, walked, with 
 the same characteristic, individual charm ; but 
 every touch of the old frivolity had fled from her. 
 There were several ladies present. I had never 
 seen any of them before ; they were all elderly 
 ladies, and they had by no means a fashionable 
 appearance. I sat amazed when I heard Mrs. 
 Kingdon say to one of them : 
 
THE LADY WHO REFORMED. 277 
 
 " What you told me just now, Mrs. Rowth, 
 a moment before Mr. Manhattan entered, I can- 
 not grant that I entirely indorse. The strongly 
 ethical and humane element in George Eliot's 
 writings appears to me sufficient in itself. If the 
 pietistic motive be lacking from it, the religious 
 one is not. The brilliant Huxley somewhere says 
 I forget just where that the clergy are now 
 divided into three sections, an immense body who 
 are ignorant and speak out; a small proportion 
 who know and are silent ; and a minute minority 
 who know and speak according to their knowl- 
 edge. Though not of the clergy, I think George 
 Eliot knows and speaks according to her knowl- 
 edge ; but she puts no restraint upon grand moral 
 feeling. Her text is abstract righteousness, and 
 it does not need the authority of any dead prophet 
 or preacher." 
 
 Not long afterward she said to another of the 
 ladies : 
 
 "Yes, my instincts are all truly republican. 
 But I am always averse to the least violence in the 
 way of forcing human development. Comte has 
 expressed his aversion to this tampering with the 
 slow amelioration of humanity by direct progres- 
 sive law. Russia only rivets her bonds closer for 
 a century each time she massacres a Czar. Her- 
 bert Spencer is of the same opinion, you re- 
 member, he drew so much from Comte. For my 
 part, I consider " 
 
 It is my impression that just at this point I be- 
 
278 SOCIAL SILHOUETTES. 
 
 gan to feel a slight yet indistinct humming in the 
 ears. Was the voice that I now heard dealing 
 with George Eliot and abstract righteousness, and 
 the folly of forcing human development, and the 
 indebtedness of Herbert Spencer to Comte was 
 it trul}' the same voice that I had heard, not so 
 very long ago, assure me that a Blue Room party 
 at Delmonico's was a good deal pleasanter than 
 one of those big balls in the grand salon, and that 
 Amy Van Horn had decided positively to an- 
 nounce her engagement next week to Tom East- 
 river, and that the latest daint}- commands from 
 Paris were that ladies would wear heels a quarter 
 of an inch higher than ever before ? 
 
 Could I be dreaming it all, or was this radical 
 change a clear, tangible fact ? 
 
 A little later all the ladies had left us. The 
 short February day had begun to darken. I sat 
 alone with Julia Clyrner Kingdon in the pleasant 
 fire-lit drawing-room. I had asked her certain 
 questions ; she had answered me with her old 
 fresh and sweet laugh ; she had spoken of herself, 
 of her marriage, of her husband, of the change 
 that a comparatively brief time had made. It is 
 useless to add that I had listened with keen atten- 
 tion. And I was listening still as she said : 
 
 " Oh, yes ! Mr. Manhattan, rny dear Wallace 
 woke me up. Those giddy, silly days seem as if I 
 had lived them in another star. What I do, I 
 always do thoroughly. You used to say that of me. 
 You remember ? " (Ah, how like the other Julia 
 
THE LADY WHO REFORMED. 279 
 
 she was, as she put her head a little sideways, and 
 murmured, " You remember ? ") " You always 
 seemed different from the rest of the men I met. 
 That is why I asked you to come and drink tea 
 with me to-day. Well, as I did everything that 
 T did thoroughly then, so, when I reformed, I 
 reformed thoroughly. I 'm not a bit of a blue- 
 stocking ; I don't pose a particle ; I detest all in- 
 tellectual shams and attitudes. But I have an 
 immense contempt for the way American women 
 let their brains go to waste. I think it horrible 
 that brains should be out of fashion in American 
 society. I am afraid that I think American society 
 horrible too. I knew it pretty thoroughly, you 
 recollect. Boston, Washington, Philadelphia, I 
 have seen them all, besides New York. And I 
 shudder when I recall what I saw. I am so much 
 happier now than I was then. I was always 
 secretly troubled before. I could not explain the 
 unrest ; it was like an inward fever. I am calm 
 now. I have found the intellectual life. I " 
 
 She suddenly ceased. A hand-organ outside had 
 paused just before the window near which we sat. 
 It was playing and not absolutely badly one 
 of Strauss's waltzes, a waltz that we had often 
 danced to, she and I, in past pleasant evenings 
 together. 
 
 My friend burst into her sweetest and gayest 
 laugh. Our eyes met. We both rose simultane- 
 ously. I put my arm about her waist, and we 
 took several turns together, keeping time to the 
 
280 SOCIAL SILHOUETTES, 
 
 street music outside. Still laughing, she presently 
 disengaged herself from my clasp, and sank into an 
 arm-chair. 
 
 " Well? " she exclaimed ; "is my reformation as 
 perfect as you supposed ? " 
 
 " It is more attractive," I replied, " because it is 
 a little imperfect. I see that you are still not 
 wholly devote. A lively spark of the original Eve 
 remains." 
 
 "I told you that I did not pose or attitudinize," 
 she said. " You will find me quite sincere and 
 natural ; though, after we have met several times 
 more, you will confess the change in me to be 
 very great." 
 
 I took her hand, and bent over it with expansive 
 gallantry. 
 
 " No change," I murmured, " could transform 
 you to anything different from the most charming 
 woman of your time." 
 
THE DESTROYER OF FIRESIDES. 281 
 
 XXII. 
 
 THE DESTROYER OF FIRESIDES. 
 
 THERE is no greater proof, I think, that a man 
 who has known New York well in its nocturnal 
 aspects at length begins to find himself growing 
 old, than when he feels memorial and retrospec- 
 tive sensations about the "Fourteenth Street Del- 
 monico's." That haunt of mirth, relaxation, and 
 luxury is no more. Ilium fuit. It is true, we can 
 meet with Delmonico redivivus on the corner of 
 Twenty-Sixth Street and Fifth Avenue. But to 
 us whose side-locks are getting quite maturely 
 blanched, whose foreheads are in some cases rather 
 beamingly denuded, the new resort is very far from 
 being the old one. I fancy, liberally speaking, 
 that we somewhat maunder and prattle when we 
 praise the former restaurant so greatly to the dis- 
 credit of the present. But we can't help it ; we 
 are getting old ; the afternoon shadows are stealing 
 upon us ; and it is only fair that we should be let 
 to have our fling at what is no longer clad with the 
 rosy haze of youth, just as once, with our college 
 diplomas yet freshly framed and our digestions 
 capable of a Welsh rare-bit at midnight, we had 
 our fling at the elderly papas and uncles who 
 
282 SOCIAL SILHOUETTES. 
 
 praised to us the cakes and ale of the past. Still, 
 I think that we can now make a good case. The 
 cafe in Fourteenth Street was more spacious and 
 commodious; the dining-room was more modest 
 and cosey; the upper ball-rooms were more con- 
 veniently disposed for a festal crush, and more 
 agreeably suited for a small entertainment. Of 
 course, I admit that the old edifice represented a 
 sort of fashionable emergence, for New York, from 
 its long previous provincialism. And how New 
 York did emerge there ! What a sequence of glit- 
 tering balls ! What a glory of magnificent ban- 
 quets ! The balls are all danced away forever, and 
 the banquets forever eaten and gone. Many of 
 their guests are dust. The old story of all great 
 cities repeats itself with ours. A huge carpet- 
 store flaunts its wares on the site of that well-re- 
 membered and most sumptuous of inns. Already 
 our children (so aggressively grown up) point to 
 it as they pass, and tell each other that " Delmon- 
 ico's used to be there" I think we ought to have 
 the place called Delmonico Square. We don't 
 pay this tribute very often to our poets or famous 
 writers ; perhaps there is a better reason (as the 
 cynic might protest) why we should pay it to the 
 cook who has so successfully set so many national 
 palates tingling. Who was the French wit who 
 said that one of the shortest ways to the human 
 heart was through the human stomach ? I confess 
 I don't recall; I am not enough of a devout 
 gourmet. 
 
TEE DESTROYER OF FIRESIDES. 283 
 
 It was in the cafe of the Fourteenth Street Del- 
 monico's that I first met Mr. Archibald Joyce. 
 He was eating a mutton-chop, cooked in some sort 
 of fragrant white sauce, with a little curl-paper 
 about its bone, and he was talking to me about my 
 father, whom he had greatly admired. That is the 
 way his image dawns upon me through the mists 
 of memory. Somehow I had drifted into a chair 
 near him ; I believe my dead cousin, Bleeker Man- 
 hattan, had presented me to him, and then hurried 
 away ; and I, if it be not an error, was waiting for 
 some male friend of one or two and twenty to join 
 me and go to some theatre. But meanwhile Mr. 
 Joyce was very civil while he ate his mutton-chop, 
 and washed it down with red wine. He must then 
 have been about five and thirty, an immense 
 age to my adolescent thinking of those days. He 
 struck me then, as he always did afterward, and as 
 I suppose he had always struck everybody else, to 
 be of extremely unprepossessing person. His fig- 
 ure was lank and ungainly, though very slim. His 
 nose was a severe beak, and under it grew a scant 
 black mustache, while above it gleamed small 
 slaty-tinted eyes. He was dressed in evening garb, 
 and with great care. You would never mistake 
 him (how one is perpetually dropping into that 
 worn rut of phrase) for anything except a gentle- 
 man. I had heard of him as a person of social 
 note, I could not recollect just when or how, and 
 in my rather self-important juniority I thought it a 
 fine thing to be seen chatting with him, (There 
 
284 SOCIAL SILHOUETTES. 
 
 was so much pleasure once in the triumph of being 
 seen with this or that accredited nabob ! If Carlyle 
 had said that all young people are snobs, I think he 
 might have come more closely to a universal 
 truth.) 
 
 Archibald Joyce quite won me that evening, 
 and on leaving him I could scarcely tell why. His 
 appearance was so much against him that I never 
 thought of him for days afterward without sharply 
 re-invoking it. On the other hand, he had said 
 nothing at all clever ; but he had in a way drawn 
 me out. He had made me fancy that I myself was 
 clever ; that I could get along with tried men of 
 the world like himself, and be liked by them. He 
 had taken an apparent keen interest in me. He 
 had asked me questions, put in such a manner that 
 I could answer them with a touch of humor or 
 gayety that seemed both apt and fresh. He gave 
 a slow, wise laugh at them, as if he thought them 
 both apt and fresh, yet did not quite reveal to me 
 what a good opinion I had made him form of my 
 native wit. Later that evening I talked of him 
 with my friend, Tom Gramercy, during the entr'- 
 actes of the theatre. Tom was of my own age, 
 but his knowledge of New York society was some- 
 thing which I then thought marvellous. He had 
 three elder sisters, all reigning fashionable matrons, 
 besides having been reared from childhood in an 
 atmosphere of active dinner-giving and party- 
 going. 
 
 "Yes," declared Tom Gramercy, "I've often 
 
THE DESTROYER OF FIRESIDES. 285 
 
 heard Kate and Maggie and Elvira speak of him. 
 He 's death on the women, you know." 
 
 " Good heavens ! " I said, as yet unused to the 
 vernacular of society. " You speak of him as if he 
 were King Herod, or Thalaba the Destroyer." 
 
 " They call him ' the destroyer of firesides,' " 
 giggled Tom. " What a funny name, is n't it ? 
 They say that he 's brought more trouble between 
 husbands and wives than any other man in the 
 country. Nobody knows much about his origin. 
 He seems to have come from nowhere. Nobody 
 ever heard of his having a mother, father, or any 
 relation whatever. He stands entirely alone by 
 himself, as it were; and he stands very well, I can 
 tell you." 
 
 " Is he rich ? " I questioned. 
 
 " He is seemingly quite well off; it 's not known 
 just where his money comes from, as he is a com- 
 plete flaneur. I don't mean that he makes a mys- 
 tery of it ; I dare say he 'd be willing enough to 
 tell, if he were asked. But nobody thinks to ask. 
 He is taken quite as a matter of course. Appar- 
 ently, too, he has no age, like Zanoni and Caglios- 
 tro. I believe that he once declared himself to be 
 forty, and immediately about twenty-five people 
 were found willing to swear that he was fifty- 
 five. Some even asserted him to be sixty-five. 
 But of course that is absurd. It 's equally absurd 
 to give him any age at all," continued Tom, who 
 had a turn for saying odd, crisp things that had 
 made him rather unpopular at college. "In the 
 
286 SOCIAL SILHOUETTES. 
 
 beginning lie was, you know. Year after year 
 bachelors drop away, wearied from festivities, and 
 give youngsters like ourselves, Mark, a chance. 
 But Archibald Joyce has never dropped away. I 
 suppose that off in remote primordial ages he had 
 vast difficulty to get among us, and, once there, 
 he intends to stay on indefinitely. Then there 's 
 another reason," pursued my informant with his 
 driest intonation : " he has such a good time going 
 about." 
 
 " Why a better one than other men have ? " I 
 questioned. 
 
 " Ob, I mean destroying firesides, you know," 
 said Tom. 
 
 I felt like breaking into a volley of laughter. 
 " How ludicrous ! " I exclaimed. " You can't mean 
 it!" 
 
 " I do mean it." 
 
 mf n 
 
 "He." 
 
 " But he 's as ugly as a gargoyle." 
 
 " I suppose if a gargoyle were made alive, and 
 wanted to attract a woman, it would succeed after 
 a few lessons from Archibald Joyce. Exactly 
 what he does has not yet been discovered ; but it 
 is something dreadfully ' fetching,' I assure you." 
 Here Tom Gramercy lowered his voice, looking 
 about him among the orchestra-stalls which sur- 
 rounded us. " Why, my dear Mark," he went on, 
 a-brim with the gossip which his pleasure-loving, 
 feather-weight family of modish idlers had poured 
 
THE DESTROYER OF FIRESIDES. 287 
 
 into him for years, " I know not less than four 
 houses in New York which that man is forbidden 
 to enter : if he did enter any of them, there 'd be 
 a divorce or a separation. And I know at least 
 six women in New York who have seriously com- 
 promised themselves by his attentions." 
 
 "Oh!" I murmured almost incredulously, "is 
 New York ever like tliat ?" I soon had reason to 
 discover that New York, as regarded certain of its 
 cliques, was very decidedly like that. But I was 
 thinking then of my pure, sweet mother, with 
 her high-bred air and her sound hatred of all 
 social laxities. She had given me a different 
 account of New York morals from what later ex- 
 periences in certain directions supplied to me. 
 But then there is a feminine chastity that throws 
 a sort of white light on what it nears; and I 
 think hers glowed with just that kindly beam. 
 
 Shortly after my conversation with Tom Gram- 
 ercy on the subject of Mr. Archibald Joyce, the 
 latter gentleman departed for Europe, where he 
 remained for several years. I felt like a veteran 
 of the ball-room when I again shook hands with 
 him. I had aged, developed, improved, degener- 
 ated, whatever you will, to a great extent, in 
 the seasons between our last meeting and now. 
 But Mr. Joyce looked precisely the same as when 
 I watched him eat his chop en papillate, and heard 
 him tell me that my father was the best whist- 
 player at the Metropolitan Club. His masterly 
 ugliness had not abated one degree. His prepos- 
 
288 SOCIAL SILHOUETTES. 
 
 terous nose still existed unchanged, and his dull, 
 small eyes were opaque as ever. I still thought 
 him one of the ugliest men I had ever seen. 
 
 I soon found out that he had accompanied home 
 a certain Mrs. Gordon Adrian ce. Mrs. Adriance, 
 as I learned, had been living for two or three 
 years abroad. She had married her husband in 
 some rather obscure German town, and had at 
 length returned with Mr. Joyce as her persistent 
 devotee. Her husband was an American, but an 
 American whom no one in New York knew. 
 Noses were turned up haughtily in Upper Ten- 
 clom ; (how I hate to write the coarse, thread-bare 
 slang !) and caste decided, in a body, not to know 
 this obscure Mrs. Gordon Adriance. 
 
 But Archibald Joyce coolly and firmly intro- 
 duced his new friend, and in a few weeks he had 
 made her a belle. She was undoubtedly pretty. 
 She had the sort of blond hair that could'be lifted 
 loosely over a head of such graceful outline that 
 the dense, shining breadth gave its contour an 
 added charm ; and she always wore her hair thus 
 arranged. Gossip rioted as to who Mrs. Gordon 
 Adriance was. Discovery soon satisfied itself that 
 she had been the daughter of a Sixth Avenue mil- 
 liner. But this dire fact did not disturb the gay 
 world half as much as one might have supposed. 
 Archibald Joyce was seen with her in opera-boxes, 
 in stalls of theatres, in the street, everywhere. 
 
 He gave her a certain cachet; he procured invi- 
 tations for her; he made her a person of impor- 
 
THE DESTROYER OF FIRESIDES. 289 
 
 tance. She was not by any means a social success; 
 she was too determinedly stupid. But she was 
 notable, and had devotees, if not admirers. 
 
 Her husband went where she went, as a rule, 
 and he was unquestionably vulgar and coarse. He 
 had a squat figure, a little, unshapely nose, a pair 
 of fiery red whiskers, an eye as dull as zinc. He 
 did not seem at all fond of his wife, and, when I 
 got to know him and talk with him, I soon became 
 convinced that he cared more for the champagne 
 and terrapin that he found at entertainments than 
 for any other attraction. He was horrid ; and I 
 dare say that I showed him I thought so. 
 
 Meanwhile his wife continued a sort of novelty. 
 I was civil to her, and perhaps my civility helped 
 to preserve her popularity. At the same time I 
 was sorry for her. I knew very well that Archi- 
 bald Joyce's devotion meant either her ruin or her 
 misery. He was perpetually at her side ; he was 
 like her shadow. I understood him now. I had 
 found out just what sort of man he was. I felt a 
 sincere hate for him, and I had a strong desire to 
 tell him of this hate. 
 
 The indifference of Mrs. Adriance's husband 
 rather increased my secret ire. The more I thought 
 of just what a man Archibald Joyce was, and just 
 what he was now doing, the more I felt my spleen 
 swell. 
 
 I spoke of the matter to one or two intimate 
 friends. They laughed in my face. " Archibald 
 Joyce ! " they said* " Why, my dear Manhattan, 
 
290 SOCIAL SILHOUETTES. 
 
 how foolish you are ! He 's been known for years 
 as just that sort of fellow. You surely won't set 
 yourself up as a teacher of morals to a man like 
 that ! If you do, you '11 find it dangerous work. 
 Better let the whole thing alone. Be sensible, and 
 don't say a word or do a thing." 
 
 But I did not choose to take such advice. If 
 Gordon Adriance had been a real man, and not a 
 common, worthless creature, I might have done 
 nothing whatever. As it was, I took the chance 
 to meet Archibald Joyce one evening in the Met- 
 ropolitan Club. I joined him just as he was about 
 ordering a cup of coffee, after dining. 
 
 " Won't you have something, Manhattan ? " he 
 said to me, seeing that I was close at his side. 
 
 "Thanks, no," I answered. I dropped into a 
 seat immediately afterward. I fixed my eyes very 
 deliberately and steadily upon his ugly face. 
 "Don't you think you ought to be ashamed of 
 yourself ? " I said. 
 
 He started as I have hardly ever seen a man 
 start before. 
 
 "What do you mean? " he asked. 
 
 "I mean that you are at your old tricks," I said 
 very calmly. "How long ago did you get the 
 name of the destroyer of firesides? A very pic- 
 turesque name, Joyce, is n't it ? I think you got 
 it a good many years ago. Eh ? " 
 
 He turned as white as the cigarette that he was 
 rolling. 
 
THE DESTROYER OF FIRESIDES. 291 
 
 " You are insolent, sir," he said to me under his 
 breath. 
 
 " Do you think so ? " I answered. 
 
 "I do think so." 
 
 " As you please." 
 
 He rose. I remained seated. But my gaze did 
 not leave his face. I saw that he was trembling. 
 
 " There are rules in this club, Mr. Manhattan," 
 he said, " which protect a member from inso- 
 lence." 
 
 " You are perfectly right," I replied. " I have 
 not insulted you. If you think that I have done 
 so, you have the right of appealing to the govern- 
 ing committee." 
 
 " I shall appeal to them," he returned, hoarse 
 with anger. 
 
 "I don't think that you will," I 'said. I was still 
 quite composed. " I don't think you will dare." 
 
 He met my look squarely. He tossed his ciga- 
 rette away, and then sank on the lounge beside 
 me. I had always thought him ugly, but I had 
 never seen him so ugly as then, in his agitation, 
 his disarray. 
 
 " For God's sake ! Mark Manhattan," he said 
 huskily, " what do you mean ? What what are 
 you driving at ? " 
 
 I felt very cruel. I don't know that I have ever 
 had a more thoroughly heartless mood than just 
 then. 
 
 " Destroyer of firesides," I said. I laughed as 
 the words left my lips. 
 
292 SOCIAL SILHOUETTES. 
 
 He scowled at me. He was trembling so that 
 he could not conceal the tremor. 
 
 "Come, now," he stammered, "tell me what 
 you're up to. You you wish to insult me, do 
 you, Mark? Why don't you have some witnesses, 
 then ? Why do you speak like this without any- 
 body to hear you ? " 
 
 " Do you want witnesses ? " I asked. 
 
 " I want you to explain yourself." 
 
 " There is no necessity of that." 
 
 " What do you mean ? " 
 
 " I mean that you should cease trying to destroy 
 the reputation of a perfectly pure woman." 
 
 I heard him grind his teeth. He was so choked 
 with rage that he could make no answer. I put 
 my hand on his arm, and felt it recoil as I did so. 
 
 " You are a scamp, Joyce," I said very quietly. 
 " You have been rather priding yourself on being 
 a scamp for a good many years past. There are 
 several men like you in New York society, vam- 
 pires, whom people somehow permit to exist here. 
 You spoke of the governing committee of this club. 
 Let me see you dare to speak of this matter before 
 them. And never address a word to Mrs. Gordon 
 Adriance again never one word, remember. If 
 you do, I will publicly cane you. I promise you 
 that I will. Your reputation as the destroyer of fire- 
 sides may be very well founded and secure, but I 
 propose to interfere with its permanence." 
 
 I rose as I finished speaking. I had used a very 
 low tone of voice. Archibald Joyce remained 
 
THE DESTROYER OF FIRESIDES. 298 
 
 seated, and looked up into my face with an ex- 
 pression that surprised me for its mildness. I had 
 expected some sort of outburst ; but none came, 
 and I walked away. 
 
 Shortly afterward I left the club and went 
 home. I did not sleep a wink that night. I told 
 myself that I had behaved like a bully, that I had 
 disgraced myself as a gentleman. Then came the 
 re-action. I declared to myself that I had done 
 right; that I had used the bludgeon where the 
 bludgeon was needed ; and that no one could really 
 blame me, all circumstances of the case being con- 
 sidered. 
 
 I became so distressed with the whole affair, 
 I decided so often that I had been a Quixotic 
 fool, I fumed in sercet so much, and had so many 
 twinges of conscience, that more than once I was 
 on the verge of going up to Archibald Joyce and 
 begging his pardon. 
 
 Ought I to have done so ? 
 
 If I had attempted it, I don't think he would 
 have done anything but turn his back on me. 
 When we meet now, his face is usually a thunder- 
 cloud. I think I have made about as solid an 
 enemy in that quarter as it would be possible to 
 conceive of. 
 
 But he has never spoken to Mrs. Gordon 
 Adriance since then. I know this from her own 
 pretty lips. Is he afraid of my cane? Is he a 
 coward as well as a destroyer of firesides ? I think 
 most destroyers of firesides are cowards. 
 
294 SOCIAL SILHOUETTES. 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 A TYPICAL HEW YOKE GIEL. 
 
 I HAVE been repeatedly asked by foreigners 
 visiting this country whether caste and all its 
 attendant snobberies exist here as they exist in 
 other lands. I usually, on these occasions, pretend 
 to meditate before answering. A reply always 
 seems to gain in trustworthiness if not too glibly 
 spoken. But there is no necessity for any medita- 
 tion whatever. My response is really quite at the 
 tip of my tongue. 
 
 " For the country at large," I say, "I should find 
 it hard to speak. I know Boston, Philadelphia, 
 Baltimore, and all those important cities, but ill. 
 My sojourn in each has been only for a brief while. 
 But New York I know very well. I have reason 
 to do so. And I believe it to be about as posi- 
 tively snobbish a city as the globe possesses." 
 
 But once I was asked whether the young ladies 
 of New York were specially marked by this same 
 defect. 
 
 " Yes," I replied, " much more, as a rule, than 
 our married women. Youth is the imaginative 
 period, and all ideas connected with caste appeal to 
 the imagination. The patrician element in New 
 
A TYPICAL NEW YORK GIRL. 295 
 
 York society is to-day principally made up from 
 the descendants of Dutch immigrants. There are 
 very few cases in which these Dutch forefathers of 
 our so-called leading families were people of the 
 slightest note in their own country. The Amster- 
 dams and the Van Schuylkills delude themselves 
 otherwise, and, if the delusion were a harmless one, 
 there would be no objection to their hugging it." 
 
 " And why is it not harmless? " asked my foreign 
 friend, who was a most relentless questioner, and 
 who entertained the secret project, I am sure, of 
 writing a book about this country after he returned 
 to his own. 
 
 "It is not a harmless delusion," I answered, 
 "because these people, by assuming to represent 
 an aristocracy of birth, strike an ironical blow at 
 the very roots of democracy. How many hundreds 
 of Europeans, in the year 1776, would have confi- 
 dently prophesied for us an almost ideal society 
 when a century had passed ! And now a century 
 has passed." 
 
 " That is not much for a nation.*' 
 
 "It is a great deal for ours. We were never 
 born like other nations. We were in one sense a 
 colony, in another a usurpation, and in a third an 
 inheritance. We had no language to develop, no 
 barbarism to civilize, no feudalism to break down. 
 We have named thousands of our towns and a few 
 of our great cities (as, for example, New York, 
 New Orleans, Boston, etc.) after foreign places. 
 Our one century should have been what five were 
 
296 SOCIAL SILHOUETTES. 
 
 to ancient Rome. Politically our air was full of 
 warnings ; we had nothing to live down, and 
 everything to live up to. Socially we had un- 
 counted European blunders to admonish us and 
 keep us on our guard. Yes, our century should 
 have meant at least half a chiliad, as far as con- 
 cerns actual progress. Above all things, pride of 
 birth had no place in our great metropolitan cen- 
 tres. It is absurd, it is preposterous, it is self-con- 
 tradictory and grossly inconsistent." 
 
 " But is it pride of birth ? " asked my friend. 
 . "Unquestionably. New York society is con- 
 stantly called plutocratic. It is no more so to-day 
 than the society of London or Berlin. Money 
 feeds and stimulates its aristocratic energies, that 
 is all. And every year makes affairs worse. Every 
 year it is a matter of greater value to have pos- 
 sessed a creditable grandfather. A man's or a 
 woman's genealogical tree the old souvenirs, the 
 vieux galons, of a good descent are constantly 
 becoming more and more matrimonially salable. 
 4 Salable ' is a horrible word in this connection, I 
 admit, but I can think of none less brutal and at 
 the same time less expressive." 
 
 " This brings us to the original subject of our 
 discussion," said my friend with a smile. 
 
 " Ah ! you mean the young ladies," I answered, 
 " the typical New York girls." 
 
 "Yes, of your" And here he paused. 
 
 "Of our aristocracy," I said, finishing his sen- 
 tence for him. "You foreigners can't concede us 
 
A TYPICAL NEW YORK GIRL. 297 
 
 one, and I don't blame you that you cannot. I 
 wish that we were only unable to concede it to 
 ourselves." I mused for a moment just here, and 
 then continued: "The vision of a certain very 
 typical New York girl, of precisely the class which 
 you mean, rises before me at this moment; and 
 a rather pretty story is connected with her. I say 
 pretty story, because it has so picturesque and 
 unexpected an ending." 
 
 " I should be charmed to hear it," said my friend, 
 with a show of interest which I needed no vanity 
 to detect as genuine. 
 
 "The heroine," I began, "was one of my 
 innumerable female cousins. Her name, like mine, 
 was Manhattan. She was the daughter of my 
 father's eldest brother, a man who had received 
 from his father the bulk of a really enormous for- 
 tune, made somewhat suddenly by the great rise 
 of real estate in our city. This custom of giving 
 the giant's share of a large heritage to the eldest 
 son of a family is far more common with us than 
 you probably suppose, and grows more general as 
 Anglo-mania strikes deeper roots into our soil. 
 
 " Mr. Augustus Manhattan, my uncle, had lived 
 for ten years in England and France when he at 
 length returned to this country with a daughter 
 aged nineteen and a son of about nine. Three 
 years previously his wife, who had been a Miss 
 Fairfax of Virginia, and a noted beauty, had died 
 in Paris. Immediately upon his arrival here, my 
 uncle re-opened his spacious mansion in the lower 
 
208 SOCIAL SILHOUETTES. 
 
 part of Fifth Avenue, which had remained vacant 
 during his absence. Cards were issued to all 
 his old friends, and many more people besides. 
 Georgine, his daughter, was about to make her 
 debut in the fashionable world. I expected to find 
 her a thorough-paced foreigner in every respect ; 
 but, to my surprise, I found her nothing of the 
 sort. She was just as American as if she had 
 spent the last ten years in New York instead of 
 Europe. She had met many Americans in Paris, 
 and had principally associated with these during 
 the two last years which she had spent exclusively 
 in the great capital. 
 
 " c You are a typical New York girl, Georgine,' I 
 remember saying to her after we had had several 
 talks together. Those, I recall, were my precise 
 words, and they rather pleased her, for she had (as 
 you will afterward think singular) a great respect 
 for her native city. 
 
 "'That is what I should like to be, cousin 
 Mark,' she replied. 4 1 belong here, you know, by 
 birth and antecedents. I like to wear the mark of 
 my nativity, so to speak. But why do you call 
 me what you have just called me ? ' 
 
 " ' You ask so many questions,' I said, ' about 
 who is who ; you are so determined to have only 
 such and such people at your house ; you 've such 
 a prodigious horror of not being select.' 
 
 " ' Of course I have,' returned Georgine primly 
 and a little crisply. In the twinkling of an eye 
 she could make herself haughty and even austere. 
 
A TYPICAL NEW YORK GIRL. 299 
 
 But her beauty (given her in all its rare bloom by 
 the dead mother of whom she was an image) clad 
 this mood in a most bewitching enticement. She 
 was a veritable little tyrant, was Georgine ; her 
 father had spoiled her, and nearly every friend 
 whom she had, indorsed his indulgence. She was 
 the most enchanting creature to look at ; she was 
 like a swan ; her neck and bust had curves to set 
 a sculptor dreaming about them ; her coloring- 
 was the lily's rather tinted than blended with the 
 rose's; her gold-shaded chestnut hair fell about 
 her delicate head with a splendid natural wave 
 and a lovely abundance. She had almost created 
 an enthusiasm at the one or two balls to which her 
 father had thus far taken her. 
 
 " She was, without exception, the most absolute 
 little snob it is possible to imagine. But you did 
 not think of her as one ; you paid her involuntary 
 homage, as you would have paid it to some beau 
 tiful young princess. I shall never forget . her at 
 her first few balls of the opening season. She 
 would enter the rooms, loaded with bouquets, 
 gliding along in the most exquisitely graceful 
 way, between her father and myself. She would 
 not permit us to leave her for more than half an 
 hour at a time. We were her royal guards, so to 
 speak, the sentinels who defended her approaches. 
 She would constantly murmur little questions in 
 my ear. . . . 'Who is that?' she would ask; 'I like 
 his way of dancing ; there is something about his 
 smile that pleases me,' and words to this effect. 
 
300 SOCIAL SILHOUETTES. 
 
 She remembered all the names of people who had 
 been prominent here in past days ; her recollection 
 in this respect was extraordinary ; but, besides rec- 
 ollecting, she had studied and investigated 'lists.' 
 Men besieged her hostesses for introductions to 
 her, and she was a sovereign belle before she had 
 been in her first public salon ten minutes. But 
 though she never refused permission to have Mr. 
 This or Mr. That presented, she would always 
 make sure of accurately hearing the name of each 
 aspirant, and sometimes, when she found herself 
 unfamiliar with it, or when its bearer had already 
 been known unfavorably to her, she would give 
 little arch and audacious excuses which rendered 
 such acquaintanceship for the time impossible. 
 It was her desire to know intimately only the 
 most prominent and notable men. She aimed 
 at a tyrannical exclusiveness. She was always 
 charming to those of her own sex whom she con- 
 sidered her equals in birth and position ; but, if she 
 suspected them of the least inferiority, she would 
 put into her smile an icy gleam, and into her air a 
 merciless, indifferent languor. 
 
 "After a while her daring became intensified. 
 She had chosen her court, so to speak, and estab- 
 lished her reign. Her self-possession was now 
 superb, and her occasional rudenesses were simply 
 abominable. Those admirers whom she regarded 
 with clemency were like vassals to her. It is no 
 hyperbole to state that in the little realm where 
 ghe ruled the wave of her hand or the toss of her 
 
A TYPICAL NEW YORK GIRL. 301 
 
 head was like the swaying of a sceptre. She was 
 preposterously self-willed ; she insisted upon hav- 
 ing her way in everything ; but she did it all 
 with such a winsome originality, such a fascinating 
 clue, that her courtiers obeyed rather gladly than 
 otherwise. 
 
 " ; She has no manners, Mark,' her father would 
 say to me in his grave, reserved way. My uncle 
 had sustained a deep sorrow in the loss of his wife, 
 and he bore his days like a man who tries to carry 
 a rather awkward burden with as much gentle- 
 manly ease as he can assume. He was won- 
 drously gentlemanly, without doubt ; he looked as 
 if he might have been a distinguished general, tall 
 and gray and a good deal furrowed, but always 
 imperturbably placid. ' Her mother was not like 
 Georgine. Your aunt Alma had a peculiar repose 
 and dignity. I wish you could dissuade Georgine 
 from showing her likes and dislikes in so glaring a 
 fashion ; it vexes and tries me very much, I assure 
 you.' 
 
 " It vexed and tried me, also, but I found all 
 argument and counsel wholly futile. My cousin 
 usually paid me the compliment of listening to me 
 for a brief while, and then her despotic interrup- 
 tions assailed me. 
 
 "'Mark, pray, what have I to do with your 
 horrid theories ? ' she would ask. ' You make me 
 think of my little brother's tutor, Mr. Cobb. 
 What a dreadful name, Cobb ! Mr. Cobb has the- 
 ories too. I don't propose to bore myself being 
 
802 SOCIAL SILHOUETTES. 
 
 civil to men with whom I am not d'accord. I 
 can't do it, and I will not voildtout! There 
 are plenty of other girls whom these creatures can 
 talk to. I have my preferences, my favorites. Of 
 course I am snobbish. I desire to be. Some peo- 
 ple are vulgar when they are snobbish ; I could 
 not be vulgar if I tried. And of course I am con- 
 ceited ; but in Heaven's name, if they think so, why 
 do they not leave me alone ? The other evening 
 I heard an old dowager say as I passed her, " She 
 has the face of an angel ; " but a companion re- 
 plied, " She stops there, however." Now, I have 
 not the least ambition to be considered an angel ; 
 I was rather pleased by that bit of repartee. Near- 
 ly all the very good women have been dull. When 
 I was abroad, I heard that the great Duke of Wel- 
 lington was once asked if he had ever known fear. 
 " Yes," he replied, " I am terribly afraid of Lady 
 So-and-So. She once refused me two extra tickets 
 to Almack's." I envy Lady So-and-So for being 
 the subject of that delightful epigram. The secret 
 of enjoying life, as I take it, is to make one's self 
 rare. I wish that good society was a walled place 
 with only one gate, and that I always carried the 
 key in my pocket ; I assure you that I should take 
 excellent care of that key ; I would never lend it 
 to a soul, for fear of having a duplicate manufac- 
 tured. You 're a great believer in science, Mark. 
 Well, I have a scientific explanation of what you 
 are pleased to consider my snobbery. Poor dear 
 mamma came from a family of Virginian planters. 
 
A TYPICAL NEW YORK GIRL. 303 
 
 They knew how to hold their heads high ; I 've in- 
 herited the tendency that is all. And of course 
 I prefer living out my real nature here rather than 
 abroad. In Europe all sorts of American canaille 
 are taken up. It is no honor to have a duchess 
 smile on one there ; she is sure to smile the next 
 instant on some dreadful person from Kansas City, 
 or East Jerusalem, O. Besides, society in Lon- 
 don now is so frightfully mixed. When papa and 
 I were on our way from Paris to Liverpool, in 
 order to take the steamer home, we stopped a 
 few days in London, and went to a ball afc the 
 Countess of Goutyjoint's great mansion, Portwine 
 House. We met literary people there, and jour- 
 nalists, and artists. Such a rabble it was per- 
 fectly epatant ! We should set them a lesson over 
 here. How I would like to do it I I only wish I 
 had an unlimited opportunity ! ' 
 
 " ' Heaven help us all if you had, my dear 
 Georgine,' I said. ' Pray, tell me, do you ever 
 expect to marry ? ' 
 
 "She tossed her graceful head. Then she 
 appeared to reflect for a moment. 'I have seen 
 two or three men here whom I might marry,' she 
 replied. ' I shall always positively insist, however, 
 on three attributes in my husband, immense 
 wealth, unexceptionable birth, and exquisite breed- 
 ing.' 
 
 " ' You are modest in your demands, truly ! ' 
 
 " ' Not at all : I am rational nothing more or 
 less.' 
 
804 SOCIAL SILHOUETTES. 
 
 "That summer my uncle and his two children 
 went to live on a fine though somewhat retired 
 estate overlooking the Hudson. Georgine's winter 
 gayeties had unsettled her health, and the doctor 
 had forbidden her Newport, at which decision she 
 grumbled not a little. Mr. Cobb, the tutor of little 
 Augustus, went with the family. Perhaps earlier 
 in my tale I should have described Mr. Cobb. He 
 was a slim, pale, scholarly-looking man, neat in his 
 dress, slow and grave in his movements, and given 
 to expansive silences. He was devoted to the little 
 heir of millions under his charge. Augustus was 
 a rather stupid boy, as little heirs of millions, by 
 some curious arrangement of fate, are often apt to 
 be. My uncle valued Mr. Cobb's services, and 
 would not, as he once told me, have parted with 
 him on any inducement. Up to the time of her 
 departure for the country, the haughty Georgine 
 had apparently noticed Mr. Cobb but in one way, 
 by visibly shuddering at his name. 
 
 " Soon after her arrival at Riverview, my cousin 
 was taken seriously ill. Almost every day she was 
 seized with a kind of nervous fainting-fit, and my 
 uncle wrote me two or three letters, in which he 
 expressed severe anxiety. Once he wrote words 
 to this effect : ' Our life here is very quiet, as of 
 course you will surmise. We have 110 visitors, 
 though remember there is always a room and a bed 
 for you, whenever you choose to seek us. Mr. 
 Cobb is a most interesting companion in this soli- 
 tude. He not only has a mind stored with facts, 
 
A TYPICAL NEW YORK GIRL. 805 
 
 but much sly humor, and clear, sensible views on 
 many subjects. What a reader and thinker the 
 man has been ! You would never suspect it if you 
 were not intimately thrown with him. I am happy 
 to say that Georgine has entirely conquered the old 
 hostility she felt for him. She often permits him 
 to read aloud to her ; and yesterday (the weather 
 being particularly cool and agreeable) she actually 
 walked about the lawn with him, under the great 
 pine-trees, leaning, for support, upon his arm? 
 
 "When I reached Riverview, toward the latter 
 portion of August, Georgine's health had greatly 
 improved. She was now quite strong again, and 
 only a trifle paler than when I had seen her in the 
 heyday of her fashionable tyrannies and caprices. 
 She welcomed me very heartily, and asked fewer 
 questions than I had expected to receive about the 
 people whom I had recently left in Newport. I 
 soon became aware that a striking change had 
 taken place ni her treatment of Mr. Cobb. That 
 gentleman was often present in our little group ; 
 and the more that his singularly reserved nature 
 betrayed itself through the medium of conversa- 
 tion, the more I grew convinced of my uncle's cor- 
 rect estimate. I soon learned that his relatives 
 were nearly all living in Kansas City, but that he, 
 through peculiar force of circumstance, had found 
 himself at an early age placed under the care of a 
 Swiss uncle on his mother's side, a person living in 
 Zurich. Here, at the University, he had been 
 educated. 
 
306 SOCIAL SILHOUETTES. 
 
 " ' You now call yourself no longer an invalid, I 
 suppose,' I said to Georgine a day or two after my 
 coming, while we sat together on the breezy piazza 
 of the big old-fashioned homestead. 
 
 " ' Oh, no ! ' she replied, 'I am in excellent health.' 
 
 " ' You will be all ready for next winter's cam- 
 paign ? ' 
 
 " She did not make me any answer. I watched 
 her half-drooped face, and then I added : 
 
 "'But you must not overdo things this time. 
 You must be more careful than you were last 
 winter.' 
 
 "She raised her head and looked at me. 'I 
 intend to be much more careful,' she said. Some- 
 thing in her tones really startled me. I could 
 hardly have told, just tlien, what induced me to 
 say : 
 
 " 4 You appear to have struck lip quite a friend- 
 ship for Mr. Cobb.' 
 
 " She colored vividly. For the first time in my 
 experience of her, I saw that she was embarrassed. 
 c Yes,' she presently returned, ' Mr. Cobb and I are 
 excellent friends.' 
 
 " ' How monstrously funny ! ' I observed. 
 
 " 4 What do you mean ? ' she asked sharply 
 enough. Her embarrassment was taking the easy 
 refuge of annoyance. ' How is it so funny, if you 
 please ? ' 
 
 " c Why, your noticing him at all. He is so radi- 
 cally different from your ideal.' 
 
 " c I never told you I had an ideal ! ' she ex- 
 claimed. 
 
A TYPICAL NEW YORK GIRL. 307 
 
 " I quietly quoted her own words, uttered not 
 so many weeks before* C I shall insist, always 
 positively insist, on three attributes, immense 
 wealth, unexceptionable birth, and exquisite breed- 
 ing.' 
 
 "There was a pause again, and I heard the 
 sound of her unseen foot as it nervously tapped 
 the piazza. 'Is n't it true,' I said at length, 'that 
 these were to be the attributes of your future hus- 
 band ? Or can I be mistaken ? ' 
 
 " She rose suddenly, and flashed a glance at me 
 full of unutterable things. Then she burst forth, 
 ' Oh, how irritating you can be, Mark, when you 
 choose ! ' and abruptly darted into the house. 
 
 " This was my first inkling of the real truth. 
 But the rest came speedily. Georgine had fallen 
 in love with Mr. Cobb, her brother's tutor, and 
 Mr. Cobb warmly reciprocated the attachment. I 
 think my uncle was a little stunned when the inev- 
 itable news broke on him; I am sure Jwas consid- 
 erably more than stunned. If tidings from over 
 sea had reached me that Queen Victoria was going 
 to let the Princess Beatrice marry a Wall Street 
 broker, I don't think I could have been more 
 astounded. 
 
 " My uncle demurred a little, and then gave his 
 full consent. Mr. Cobb had nothing but his salary ; 
 Georgine would probably have a million, at the 
 least. The whole affair set society agog for several 
 weeks. It seemed so incredible that a young 
 woman with my cousin's ultra-aristocratic views 
 
308 SOCIAL SILHOUETTES. 
 
 and feelings could ever have stepped down from 
 the pedestal she had made of them. Our beau 
 monde finds much difficulty in believing that pure 
 love can ever sway its disciples, at least before 
 wedlock. But that it should have worked such 
 marvels in two short months, produced universal 
 bewilderment. 
 
 " There was a wide flutter of curiosity to see 
 Mr. Cobb after his quiet wedding with Georgine 
 in the middle of the following autumn; but the 
 married pair slipped off to Europe, and are travel- 
 ling there still. All this is not so very long ago. 
 I should like to show you a letter which I received 
 from my cousin last month. It is uxorious beyond 
 description. Erastus is the only man in the world 
 to her. I forgot to tell you, by the way, that his 
 name is not merely Cobb, but also Erastus. And 
 so ends my story. I promised you that it should 
 have a picturesque and unexpected ending." 
 
 " But it spoils your case against the typical New 
 York girl," said my friend, laughing. " If you still 
 declare Miss Georgine to have been one, you must 
 admit that she represents a class whose faults lie 
 very much on the surface." 
 
 " No, I won't admit that," I argued. " Love is 
 a marvellous transformer. It can make the leop- 
 ard change his spots. I still maintain that my 
 cousin was a typical New York girl (though more 
 attractive, more original, and more outrageously 
 snobbish, perhaps, than most of those who resem- 
 ble her) before slie married Mr. Cobb for love," 
 
A TYPICAL NEW YORK GIRL. 309 
 
 " And do not any others of those who resemble 
 her marry Mr. Cobbs for love?" inquired my 
 friend. 
 
 I shook my head in solemn negative. " Those 
 who do," I answered dismally, "are as rare as 
 white crows." 
 
310 SOCIAL SILHOUETTES. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 THE LADY WHO IS CONSERVATIVE. 
 
 I SUPPOSE that the extreme saliency of Mrs. 
 Varick Van Tassell's position is in its way as no- 
 ticeable as if it were Trinity Church steeple or the 
 Fifth Avenue Hotel. She somehow represents 
 "position," and nothing else. You never think of 
 her as hoping, loving, enduring, and suffering like 
 other people. You always summon her before your 
 inner vision as in the act of entering a ball-room, 
 or sitting down amid the polite preliminary rustle 
 of a dinner-party, or sipping tea from diaphanous 
 porcelain at an afternoon reception. She has a 
 very large house " on the avenue," where she has 
 lived for many years. She has also a husband, 
 whom I should have mentioned before the house 
 if I had not grown somehow to place him after it 
 and secondary to it ; but he is so distinctly an ad- 
 junct that I am not to blame. Mrs. Van Tassell 
 has her mansion, her husband, her carriages, her 
 footmen, et cetera, all being possessions over which 
 she presides with distinguished grace. Mr. Varick 
 Van Tassell adores her ; and he is such a shadowy, 
 incomplete, indefinite person, that I am sure his 
 most ardent adoration could not have occasioned 
 
THE LADY WHO IS CONSERVATIVE. 311 
 
 her a moment's inconvenience. No doubt lie has 
 been of far less trouble to her judicial, superintend- 
 ent mind than the dynasty of butlers who have 
 poured wine for her guests through thirty years of 
 her wedded life. She did not at all benefit herself 
 by her marriage. There lies the chief secret of her 
 supreme prestige in New York; everything and 
 everybody has been tributary to her; she has 
 never bowed to circumstance, but has always had 
 it approach her with a kind of salaam, as though 
 it were an oriental ambassador and bore a gift. 
 It is true, she married a Van Tassell ; but, when 
 you ask who she had been before this marriage, 
 you immediately learn that it conferred no new 
 dignity of a merely patrician kind, since she had 
 been a Van Tassell herself ; and, more than this, 
 she was quite as rich a Van Tassell as her hus- 
 band. Nor were they cousins ; not even this faint 
 objection to their union had existed. On the con- 
 trary, though of the same valued Knickerbocker 
 name, they were but distantly connected. 
 
 Ever since the first year of her marriage, Mrs. 
 Van Tassell has entertained splendidly and pro- 
 fusely ; but she has also entertained with a most 
 rigid carefulness. She never discusses the ques- 
 tion of who Smith and Jones are, but she permits 
 you to form your own conclusions of her estimate 
 in this respect by the fact of whether you meet 
 one, neither, or both of them in her drawing-rooms. 
 
 "She is the most absolutely swell woman in 
 New York," said Mrs. Douglass Pranceley of her 
 
312 SOCIAL SILHOUETTES. 
 
 one day. " I admit that. With her slenderness, 
 her rose-leaf complexion, her graceful walk, her 
 repose, her little silvery laugh, she makes an aston- 
 ishingly aristocratic figure ; but I detest her. She 
 is such a bigot of conservatism." 
 
 Mrs. Pranceley is not at all conservative ; and 
 I could not help noticing just then, as she sat in 
 her own cosey chocolate-and-gold reception-room 
 at my side, how entirely her physical traits dif- 
 fered from all those which she had recently ac- 
 corded to Mrs. Van Tassell. She was by no means 
 slender, but almost buxomly plump ; she had not a 
 rose-leaf complexion, but rather a peony-like glow 
 and flush ; her walk was in no sense graceful ; she 
 completely lacked repose ; and as for her laugh, 
 the genuine heartiness of its peals alone excused 
 their dauntless discords. 
 
 "Certainly, Mrs. Van Tassell is conservative," I 
 assented. " She could not be a marked leader in 
 society if she were otherwise. Wherever the pa- 
 trician idea flourishes, there you find the motto, 
 4 Let things alone.' All thrones have been built 
 upon this theory. Dislodge it, and they begin to 
 totter." 
 
 Mrs. Pranceley looked at me fixedly with her 
 sparkling black eyes. " I think it simply dread- 
 ful," she protested, " that any human being should 
 express so much mental and moral stagnation as 
 that woman does, in our awakened nineteenth cen- 
 tury and in a progressive republican land like this. 
 The other day, as I hear, she was asked to become 
 
THE LADY WHO IS CONSERVATIVE. 313 
 
 one of the lady patrons of the new Friday evening 
 dancing-class. She consented provisionally." 
 
 " Provided somebody else was not made a lady 
 patron ? " I asked with a smile. 
 
 " Yes ; and that somebody else was your hum- 
 ble servant," declared Mrs. Pranceley. " She 
 could n't have any social objections against me, 
 you know. I am as well born as she if one 
 cares for that kind of humbug here ; we 're second 
 or third cousins, on the Fyshkille side of her fam- 
 ily. No, it was n't that : she objected to my 
 advanced opinions." 
 
 " Is that what she called them ? " 
 
 " Yes. She did n't realize the sarcasm in that 
 word ' advanced,' as she employed it. But I be- 
 lieve the principal horror that she laid at my door 
 was a sympathy with female suffrage. She con- 
 siders any tendency on the part of her own sex 
 toward its emancipation from old barbaric preju- 
 dices to be immodest and vulgar. Well, I readily 
 withdrew my name from the list of patronesses. 
 When one begins actually to think and read for 
 one's self, it 's remarkable how much contempt 
 one gets for these assemblages of mere babbling, 
 prattling snobs. But I mean to have my revenge 
 on Lydia Van Tassell." 
 
 " And, pray, what is your revenge to be ? " I 
 asked. 
 
 44 1 shall send her a polite request to join a 
 certain woman's rights society, of whicji I have 
 ]ately become a member. I shall write her a really 
 
314 SOCIAL SILHOUETTES. 
 
 cousinly, affectionate note. It will be like dyna- 
 mite to her, I verily believe! " And Mrs. Prance- 
 ley threw back her head with a gleeful explosion 
 of laughter. 
 
 "She will write you a terrible, scathing rebuke, 
 no doubt," I said. 
 
 " Bah ! " cried my hostess. " She has n't the 
 brains to write anything terrible or scathing. She 
 will probably ignore my letter altogether. Silence 
 will be her best refuge, she will decide. And 
 she will be right. Silence may be the mantle of 
 wisdom, but it may also be the safeguard of stu- 
 pidity." 
 
 Mrs. Van Tassell adopted the course of silence, 
 as I afterward learned; but Mrs. Pranceley had 
 made a mistake in her kinswoman. She is not 
 devoid of brains. I have reason for this state- 
 ment, as I hope soon to reveal. In her general 
 social attitude there is an extraordinary taste and 
 discretion. The high place that she fills is filled 
 with a striking capability. Her consistency, so to 
 speak, is perfect. Her individuality as a woman 
 who represents what is select, exclusive, palpably 
 and keenly unplebeian, shines out so clear that you 
 cannot for an instant err or doubt concerning its 
 accuracy. To be anything, in the eyes of your 
 fellows, of such a vividly positive nature that all 
 misunderstanding about it is impossible, means to 
 accomplish what is difficult and rare. Mrs. Van 
 Tassell, to my thinking, has done that. She has 
 achieved a personality so distinct, that whether 
 
THE LADY WHO IS CONSERVATIVE. 315 
 
 you like or dislike, approve or disapprove her, you 
 can never fail to realize with exactitude precisely 
 what she is. She admits of no misconception. 
 She has the most sharp-lined opinions, and she 
 possesses the courage of them in the most clean- 
 cut way. Call her a power for bad, if you will, but 
 she is at least that unshrinkingly and incisively. 
 She believes herself to be right ; and, though you 
 laid at her feet the wealth of Ormus and Ind, you 
 could not convert her to any other faith. 
 
 It is not so much that she does not think or 
 reason : it is that thought and reason have both 
 stood still with her since girlhood. All novelty 
 of view regarding the great problems of life are to 
 her abomination, even blasphemy. She is a ritu- 
 alistic Episcopalian. In her heart she holds all 
 people who are not ritualistic Episcopalians as 
 pitiably wrong. She learned years ago to worship 
 caste, pedigree, position. In her heart she holds 
 that all people who omit to do this are a luckless 
 lot. She regards radical inquiry on every sub- 
 ject, the failure to accept society and moral law as 
 they are now existent, to be dangerous, foolish, in- 
 sensate. All people, again, who are not with her 
 on these vital questions, she holds as culpably 
 against her. Everything has been settled in the 
 world, and she placidly lifts the standard of 
 conservatism, signifying that this is a granitic 
 fact. 
 
 Of course, I knew very well that Mrs. Pranceley 
 had offended her past all propitiation by that re- 
 
816 SOCIAL SILHOUETTES. 
 
 vengeful letter, and it even occurred to me that 
 her wrath might be visited upon myself as a 
 widely recognized friend of the rationalistic little 
 lady who had roused it. Not so, however. She 
 gave one of her superb state balls a few weeks 
 later, and sent me the usual card. She had been 
 a friend of my mother in the old days ; I have 
 even heard that my father was once one of her 
 gallant admirers when she was Miss and not Mrs. 
 Van Tassell. For whatever reason, she has always 
 shown me marked favor, and as yet there was no 
 sign of its diminution. 
 
 Few " invitations for friends " were ever asked 
 when she gave her entertainments. The guests 
 who came were only too glad that their own 
 names had not been dropped. Mrs. Pranceley 
 (whose letter had been a sort of lettre de cachet, 
 and who received no cards to the special ball 
 which I mention) vented her fund of scorn by tell- 
 ing me a story which she assured me was entirely 
 authentic. 
 
 " Two summers ago, my dear Mr. Manhattan," 
 she said, " this mighty Mrs. Van Tassell issued 
 cards for a ball at her handsome Newport villa. 
 No less a magnate than Stuyvesant Amsterdam 
 himself (you of course know whom I mean) called 
 upon her a week before the ball occurred, and re- 
 quested an invitation for a relative of his wife, a 
 Miss Pickerel, who had lately come to Newport. 
 Now, Stuyvesant Amsterdam, as you have probably 
 heard, married somebody from Elmira, or some- 
 
THE LADY WHO IS CONSERVATIVE. 317 
 
 where like that, who had no money, and who, as 
 report affirmed, had actually occupied the degrad- 
 ing position of a school-teacher. The moment 
 that Mr. Amsterdam had mentioned the name of 
 his wife's cousin, Mrs. Van Tassell gently frowned. 
 
 "'What a really dreadful name Pickerel is!' 
 she murmured. Then she looked at him with a 
 smile as cold as snow, and added, 'I I rarely 
 entertain people whom I do not 'know ; but of 
 course, if you put it in the form of a a request^ 
 Mr. Amsterdam, I will make an exception to my 
 my customary rule.' 
 
 " ' Madam ! ' cried Stuyvesant Amsterdam, with 
 that red face of his in a sudden blaze of embar- 
 rassment and fury, ' do not say another word. 
 Miss Pickerel will remain away from your ball 
 with my wife and myself ! ' 
 
 " And did they remain away ? " I inquired. 
 
 " Oh, yes ! " replied Mrs. Pranceley. " And I 
 have no doubt that Mrs. Yan Tassell rather con- 
 gratulated herself on the success of her delicate 
 insolence. She had always objected to Stuyve- 
 sant's marriage, and had only received his wife (he 
 is a relation of hers, by the way) under protest. 
 She doubtless knew that the tale of her rebuff 
 would be circulated, and perhaps felt that it would 
 act in the future as a preventive against similar 
 atrocious presumption. And it did." 
 
 A little while after the ball given by Mrs. Yan 
 Tassell, I was surprised to receive from her a note 
 requesting that I would dine at her house quite 
 
318 SOCIAL SILHOUETTES. 
 
 informally on a near evening. It was then the 
 first week in Lent. I accepted her invitation, and 
 found my hostess the only lady present. Varick 
 Van Tassell was there, with his vapory whisker, 
 his watery smile, his conventional, neutral insig- 
 nificance. And besides himself and me, there were 
 two other gentlemen. I had never met either oi 
 them before ; they were a Mr. Potts and a Mr. 
 Dodson. They were both young, smooth-shaven, 
 inconspicuous, and rather bashful. They had very 
 little to say during dinner ; and afterward, when 
 the opportunity came, Mrs. Van Tassell briefly 
 explained to me that they were two young theo- 
 logical friends of hers, who were studying to be 
 clergymen in Brooklyn. Her husband's relations, 
 the Brooklynheights, had "taken them up," and 
 Mr. Van Tassell was to accompany them on a 
 
 visit that same evening to Bishop L ("dear 
 
 Bishop L ," my hostess put it) for the purpose 
 
 of making them acquainted with that famous 
 divine. 
 
 Meanwhile, on my reception of this information, 
 the two students had departed with Mr. Van 
 Tassell. I now understood why the dinner had 
 been given at the unusually early hour of six 
 o'clock. Mrs. Van Tassell and I had left the din- 
 ing-room, and had seated ourselves in a middle 
 drawing-room which adjoined it. Everything had 
 been, as usual, elegant, refined, faultless. I wanted 
 to smoke, as I always do want after dinner, but 
 there seemed no possible chance for it. Notwith- 
 
THE LADY WHO IS CONSERVATIVE. 319 
 
 standing the perfection of our repast, it had been 
 brief. The hour was now scarcely later than seven. 
 
 "We have had a real Lenten dinner, have we 
 not ? " Mrs. Van Tassell presently said. " I mean, 
 it has been so short." She now looked at me with 
 soft earnestness. "But I fear you do not think 
 much about Lent," she added. 
 
 I had somehow felt that something of this sort 
 was in the air. It is possible that I furtively bit 
 my lip as I answered : 
 
 " No, frankly, I am not pious." 
 
 "She drew a long, deep sigh. She was still 
 earnestly regarding me. " Your mother, Mark," 
 she said, " always paid heed to Lent." 
 
 I slowly inclined my head. I could have said 
 much ; I chose to remain silent. 
 
 Mrs. Van Tassell had been drawing on her 
 gloves. She always wore them when in her salon. 
 She now buttoned the last of their many buttons, 
 and once more lifted her face to mine. 
 
 "Mark," she said very gently, "I hear bad 
 things about you." 
 
 I -met her look then, and met it full. "Pray, 
 what do you hear ? " I asked. 
 
 She folded both her slim, ladylike hands in her 
 lap. She leaned her pink, fade, high-bred face 
 toward mine. " I hear," she said, " that you are 
 letting yourself drift." 
 
 " Letting myself drift ! " I exclaimed. " Well, 
 T 'm sorry if you Ve heard that, Mrs. Van Tassell. 
 I want to sail, not drift. I want to move capably, 
 not float," 
 
320 SOCIAL SILHOUETTES. 
 
 She slightly drooped her head, and shook it as 
 she did so. " Ah ! " she replied, " to move may 
 mean to move either forward or backward." 
 
 " And do you prefer to be always stationary ? " 
 
 Her eyes, which were gray and tender, and had 
 been not the least of her youthful charms, now 
 took a light into their depths almost as keen as 
 that of the superb diamond cross lying brilliant 
 among the laces on her bosom. 
 
 " I prefer an anchorage," she said. 
 
 I now began to have the feelings of a shy crea- 
 ture that has been deftly entrapped. I began to 
 perceive with great clearness why I had been 
 asked to dinner. The whole affair had been neatly 
 arranged beforehand. Varick Van Tassell was to 
 disappear after dinner, with the two embryo cler- 
 gymen, and I was to be left alone, at the mercy 
 of his wife, who desired to preach- me a sermon. 
 Somehow, while I quickly reflected that all this 
 was quite true, I felt no rising choler. I was 
 determined to be Ion enfant. I had no wish either 
 to offend or become offended. What, after all, was 
 Mrs. Van Tassell's conservatism to me ? I could 
 not repose much confidence in my own liberalism,, 
 if I were to treat seriously any rebuke she might 
 administer. 
 
 " I suppose you mean," I said, " that one should 
 take the world as it is. But I am not of that 
 kind. I believe that we are still, in a hundred 
 matters, merely upon the threshold of progress. 
 As for your own sex, Mrs. Van Tassell " 
 
THE LADY WHO IS CONSERVATIVE. 321 
 
 She had straightened herself in her chair, and 
 she now stretched forth one hand, making with it 
 a gesture that I must have been rude to disregard. 
 
 " Don't ! " she almost gasped. " I can't bear 
 that! I think that I could nerve myself to hear 
 anything but that ! Oh, it is so brazen for women 
 to dream of having the same rights as men! I 
 have all the rights that I want. I have always 
 had." 
 
 "Ah! you forget," I could not help saying at 
 this preposterous point in her remarks, "that many 
 millions of women exist on the globe whose fate is 
 quite different from your own." 
 
 She lifted her head somewhat haughtily, com- 
 pressing her lips. " I see you wish to argue 
 with me. But I cannot endure that on such a 
 subject I should be led into an argument." 
 
 I smiled as I answered her. I felt my good 
 nature to be impregnable against javelins like these. 
 
 " You mistake," I said ; " I do not at all wish to 
 argue. And you must pardon me when I add that 
 you are too uninformed on this most important 
 question to make argument possible between us." 
 
 " Uninformed I " she exclaimed with a smile of 
 surpassing pity. " O Mark ! if your poor mother 
 knew that you valued information of this misera- 
 ble sort! And in what does it consist, such in- 
 formation? In a knowledge of nearly all that 
 is infamous and degrading among womankind. 
 Women's rights, what are they ? The rights 
 to unsex themselves to trample marriage under 
 
322 SOCIAL SILHOUETTES. 
 
 their feet to become free-lovers to dress like 
 men to . . . Ah!" she suddenly broke off, ris- 
 ing, " it is too horrible ! There has never been a 
 serious view of this shameful matter taken by any 
 guest of mine before, and I cannot tolerate that 
 even you, the son of my old friend, should begin." 
 
 I had also risen. I was still not in the least 
 angry. The whole exhibition of ignorance and 
 bigotry was too sad for that. 
 
 "Pray, do not for an instant imagine," I said 
 very calmly and firmly, "that you are taking a 
 serious view of the rights of women by such 
 wholesale misrepresentation as that which you 
 have just employed." 
 
 " Misrepresentation ! " she repeated offendedly, 
 and with the air of a person whom there is peril 
 in offending. 
 
 "The grossest misrepresentation," I said with 
 much emphasis. " I don't believe you are aware 
 of it, but you have insulted a great many women 
 who are as pure and honest as yourself, by the 
 reckless language you have just used." 
 
 She turned pale. A great sorrow seemed to fill 
 her look, but there was no anger there. She 
 clasped both hands together as she now fixed her 
 eyes searchingly on my face. I have often remem- 
 bered her as she stood thus, with her costly dinner- 
 robe flowing about her fragile and wholly elegant 
 figure. As a type, she had such imaginative worth : 
 the romance of the old yrandes dames seemed 
 clinging to her as I watched her thus confront me 
 
THE LADY WHO IS CONSERVATIVE. 328 
 
 there in her splendid drawing-room. "Is this 
 America ? " I almost asked of my own thoughts. 
 If all history loves to repeat itself, does not the 
 mere individual, who is like a line in one of her 
 mighty volumes, undergo perpetual reduplication 
 as well? 
 
 "I I am so sorry ! " she said to me. " I have 
 always liked you, Mark, and never wanted to be 
 anything except your good friend. When I first 
 heard that you had taken to reading books by that 
 arch-fiend, Herbert Spencer (yes, I can call him 
 nothing but an arch-fiend), and that you were 
 becoming the unhappy and desperate being called 
 a Free-thinker, I I longed to try and help you. 
 But now " 
 
 " But now," I broke in as her grave voice 
 paused for a moment, " I dare say that you have 
 found me past help." I was again smiling as I 
 thus spoke. 
 
 "Past help!" she repeated. "Don't tell me 
 that ! It is so awful ! And you smile as if you 
 despised anything like counsel or advice." She 
 paused once more, and her face grew very solemn. 
 " Mark," she presently continued, " are you 
 answer me truthfully and candidly a Free- 
 thinker?" 
 
 " On all subjects," I at once answered, " yes, 
 truthfully and candidly, yes." 
 
 She bowed her head for an instant, and visibly 
 shuddered. When she raised it, I saw that her 
 look was even more sorrowful than it had been. 
 
824 SOCIAL SILHOUETTES. 
 
 "You have just said something," I continued, 
 " about a man who is the supreme master of mod- 
 ern English thought, that, if I were inclined to 
 be discourteous, I should call immeasurably silly. 
 You worship a god whose name is Conventionality ; 
 and, in order properly to serve him, you blind your 
 eyes and deafen your ears. You have made the 
 attempt to lecture me, Mrs. Van Tassell, from your 
 stand-point of unflinching conservatism ; but, with 
 the greatest respect and the most thorough polite- 
 ness, I must decline to be lectured. I am far from 
 denying my own faults. They may be legion. 
 Some one, who had presumption enough, might 
 mention a few of your faults in your presence. 
 He might say (you will pardon me, since I speak 
 only of remote possibilities) that your assumption 
 of caste and superiority over your fellow-creatures 
 is contrary to the spirit of all high religious teach- 
 ing. He might say that even in being as tena- 
 ciously conservative as you are, you failed to 
 fulfil such obligations as your defined conservative 
 attitude should entail. He might be presumptuous 
 to the extent of stating that you wholly lacked, as 
 a self-declared Christian, the extremely Christian 
 virtue of humility. He might (pray, remember 
 that I still deal with possibilities alone) assert 
 that you assumed an immense im-Christian superi- 
 ority over your fellows. He might " 
 
 I ceased ; for the suave, stately, decorous butler 
 had just entered the apartment. 
 
 "The carriage, Thomas?" said Mrs. Van Tas- 
 sell, looking at her servant. 
 
THE LADY WHO IS CONSERVATIVE. 325 
 
 "Yes, Mrs. Van Tassell," said Thomas, with a 
 bow that can be learned only in the society of the 
 great. 
 
 "Very well." The voice of my hostess was 
 husky as she dismissed her servant. " I am going 
 to evening service," she continued, addressing my- 
 self; and her voice was still husky. "It is Lent, 
 you know. I always go in Lent to evening service. 
 You will excuse me ? " 
 
 " Certainly," I responded, bowing. My bow, I 
 am sure, had not half the majesty and grace of 
 Thomas's. 
 
 She went to evening service, and I went 
 away. 
 
 I wonder if Mrs. Van Tassell will ever invite me 
 to her house again. I should say that she will not. 
 I had trodden somewhat bruskly upon the toes 
 of conservatism. Why should I expect further 
 hospitality from the lady who thinks a rascal in 
 the New York slums better entitled to a vote 
 regarding the government of her country than she 
 herself, or who has denounced Mr. Herbert Spen- 
 cer (that most wonderful of philanthropists) as an 
 arch-fiend ? 
 
 Well, it is surprising what torments the human 
 organization can endure at a pinch. I have my 
 private impression, that, if Mrs. Varick Van Tas- 
 sell never again invites me to her handsome house 
 in Fifth Avenue, I shall still live. 
 
32G SOCIAL SILHOUETTES. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 THE GENTLEMAN WHO IS GLIB. 
 
 I HAD for several years accepted as a clear 
 fact the excessive cleverness of Mr. Peabody 
 Crisp, the well-known lawyer. Doubt on this 
 subject is held by perhaps two hundred of the 
 gentleman's leal worshippers as an impossibility. 
 I know of few men in New York more socially 
 sought after than Mr. Peabody Crisp. I think it 
 probable that he could dine out every day in the 
 year if so disposed. I am sure that his company 
 at dinner is solicited to an enormous extent. He 
 represents, as regards popularity and influence, 
 the almost ideally successful man. He is con- 
 sidered the best of good company, the king of 
 good fellows. When he begins to speak, there is 
 always a respectful and interested silence. His 
 reputation for wit and brilliancy amounts to a 
 positive fame. Nor does it stop there; he is 
 esteemed a person of sound and solid views on all 
 the larger and more important questions. He is 
 known to be extremely orthodox and conservative. 
 His detestation of liberal principles in politics and 
 religion has become proverbial. He is thought 
 especially noteworthy as an after-dinner speaker. 
 
THE GENTLEMAN WHO IS GLIB. 327 
 
 When his name is pronounced by the master of 
 ceremonies, you are certain to hear a round of 
 rapturous applause. He rises with drooped eyes, 
 stroking a smooth-shaven chin. He begins to 
 speak in a very nasal, loitering voice. He is 
 exceedingly tall, of lank and ungainly figure, and 
 he possesses a pair of immense, salient-knuckled 
 hands, which he waves and flourishes more and 
 more during the heat of his oratory. Usually, at 
 the completion of his first sentence, he is greeted 
 by a roar of laughter. The roars continue, at 
 intervals of brief duration, until he has seated 
 himself. Nobody else ever receives the same 
 warm welcome, the same loving appreciation. I 
 believe that he will pass to his grave with a cohort 
 of the most devout and admiring mourners. Eu- 
 logy will exhaust itself in recording his marvellous 
 qualities of companionship, geniality, and secure 
 intellectual merit. 
 
 And yet I am convinced that Mr. Peabody Crisp 
 is a complete and absolute sham. 
 
 The conviction flashed upon me one evening 
 when I heard him deliver an after-dinner speech. 
 The speech was thought a striking triumph. It 
 touched upon several " questions of the day," and 
 what it touched it was evidently believed to adorn. 
 Just as the applause which had followed his final 
 sentence was subsiding, I turned to the gentleman 
 next me. 
 
 " I have never heard Mr. Crisp speak before," I 
 said. 
 
328 SOCIAL SILHOUETTES. 
 
 The gentleman's face was wreathed in smiles. 
 u ls it possible?" he murmured. "Well, you are 
 unfortunate ! " 
 
 " I shook my head with a good deal of decision. 
 " I can't agree with you," was my reply. " That 
 is, provided Mr. Crisp never acquits himself more 
 brilliantly than he has done to-night." 
 
 " Brilliantly ! " echoed my companion, who was 
 one of the recent orator's most ardent devotees. 
 " Well, sir, I should like to know what real bril- 
 liancy es, if we did not meet with it a few minutes 
 ago." 
 
 " I think we did not meet with it," I returned. 
 I secretly felt as if I had had my pockets picked 
 of considerable small change. It seemed to me 
 that this Mr. Peabody Crisp had no right to inflict 
 on more than a dozen pre-occupied digestions his 
 truly aggravating platitudes. And I now went 
 011 to say, with the unhesitating boldness which I 
 always employ when I feel myself justified by the 
 occasion : 
 
 " I call everything which I heard from Mr. Pea- 
 body Crisp's lips the flimsiest sort of 'gallery talk.' 
 I believe that I know ' gallery talk ' when I hear 
 it. We Americans ought. We manage to fall in 
 with so much of it." 
 
 My neighbor visibly bristled. I confess that I 
 enjoyed his dismay and disgust. If there is any- 
 thing in the world especially annoying to me, it is 
 genuflection before an unworthy ideal. I have a 
 good deal of honest sympathy with hero-worship, 
 
THE GENTLEMAN WHO IS GLIB. 329 
 
 notwithstanding many of its ludicrous and even 
 grotesque phases; but, when I suspect the trib- 
 ute of devotion to be paid where it is ill deserved, 
 I am prepared for not a little tough belligerence. 
 
 " Oh, I see ! Mr. Manhattan," came the rather 
 tart response : " you disagree with the ideas ex- 
 pressed by Mr. Crisp." 
 
 "Pardon me," I said. "I perceived no ideas 
 with which I could disagree." 
 
 Somehow this little assertive outburst on my 
 part got to be rather widely known. Several peo- 
 ple mentioned to me that they had heard of my 
 strong aversion for Mr. Peabody Crisp. 
 
 " It is not a strong aversion," I usually said. 
 " It is a sense of the man being a complete intel- 
 lectual fraud. His popularity I admit ; but that, 
 with me, is no argument. I have seen a good 
 many popular people and popular things unde- 
 serving of notice. I shall never forget the speech 
 
 which I heard him make at G 's large dinner. 
 
 There is no doubt that nearly everybody present 
 thought that speech a brilliant one. I am sure 
 that it was held to be representative of what the 
 gentleman usually does in that way. Am I wrong 
 there?" 
 
 " Well, no," usually came the answer. " It was 
 certainly very funny, besides being excessively 
 clever." 
 
 " Its fun," I replied, " was a matter of taste. I 
 think you get the same kind of fun in the comic 
 column of most vulgar newspapers. Its wisdom 
 
330 SOCIAL SILHOUETTES. 
 
 I could not at all see. Shallow epigram is not 
 wisdom." 
 
 The worshippers of Mr. Crisp naturally did not 
 like this sort of plain statement. I had already 
 met their idol ; and one day I was invited to dine 
 in his society by a Mr. Gentian, who ranked 
 among his devoutest admirers. Unsuspectingly I 
 accepted, and it was not until I found myself in 
 the drawing-room of my host that I began to feel 
 myself the object of a conspiracy. Perhaps this is 
 too strong a word. But as Mr. Crisp shook hands 
 with me, I fancied that there was a kind of metallic 
 challenge in his full, acute, prominent eye, and a 
 satiric smile about his thin, clean-shorn lips. As 
 I looked round the apartment, too, I saw eight 
 guests of known allegiance to Mr. Crisp. Mr. 
 Gentian's allegiance was something that belonged 
 to municipal history. Mr. Gentian held number- 
 less bonds in a noted city railway. Between him- 
 self and the railway company had arisen, several 
 years ago, a sharp quarrel. Serious charges of 
 something more than merely high-handed monop- 
 oly had been brought against Mr. Gentian, the 
 renowned Wall Street grandee. Mr. Peabody 
 Crisp had defended him in court, and won his 
 case. 
 
 Mr. Gentian was a mild-mannered little man, 
 with a superabundant forehead very bald indeed, 
 and a tapering flaxen goatee. We had nothing in 
 common together ; I detest " stock 'H;alk, and I 
 think he knew it ; I rarely did more than coolly 
 
THE GENTLEMAN WHO IS GLIB. 831 
 
 nod to him in the club. I had thought it some- 
 what odd that he should ask me to dinner ; but 
 then, a good many people do ask me to dinner for 
 no definite reason. 
 
 It was a remarkably fine dinner. The wine 
 sparkled, and the choice viands diffused rich 
 aromas. I soon observed that I sat on Mr. Gen- 
 tian's left, and that Mr. Peabody Crisp sat on his 
 right. I also made another observation before the 
 
 o 
 
 repast had reached its third course. Whenever I 
 spoke, the eight sworn adherents of Mr. Crisp 
 gave marked evidence of attention. Mr. Crisp also 
 gave such evidence. At first I doubted this fact ; 
 I fancied it a mere hallucination. But presently 
 I became convinced that it was nothing of the 
 sort. Mr. Crisp, so to speak, had been set upon 
 me. I was to be conversationally pulverized. I 
 had not a supporter present. Mr. Gentian, silent 
 as usual (I never heard him speak more than 
 three consecutive sentences), wore a steadfast fac- 
 titious smile. If the smile altered during dinner, 
 I am not aware of such alteration. As a tribute 
 to his decent hospitality, I record this neutral trait 
 of deportment. 
 
 When I had positively decided that a trap had 
 been laid for me, it is no exaggeration to state 
 that my indignation was intense. To be pitted in 
 this way against a man whom I held in thorough 
 disesteem struck me as keenly odious. But I 
 knew that indignation could now profit me noth- 
 ing, and I rapidly grew calm as I made this re- 
 
332 SOCIAL SILIIQIT.TTLX. 
 
 flection. My calmness, too, was that of wary 
 antagonism. I found myself suddenly at bay. I 
 had openly presumed to state my opinions of Mr. 
 Crisp, and I was now called upon to publicly de- 
 fend them. If there had been any manifest dis- 
 courtesy shown by my companions, I should have 
 simply guarded myself with a haughty silence, and 
 taken my leave as soon as occasion would permit. 
 But the hostility was somehow in the air ; I could 
 feel it ; I could breathe it in ; it was intangible 
 and yet apparent. And for this reason, no doubt, 
 I was put on my mettle ; I was covertly stung 
 into an attitude of careful, vigilant defence. 
 
 The first direct gun, as it were, was fired by Mr. 
 Crisp. 
 
 " My dear Gentian," he said with a sidelong 
 look at myself, while everybody listened, "have 
 you read that delightful new book by the Rev. 
 Boanerges Brittle, entitled 'Scientific Monkey- 
 Making ' ? It is a wonderful work." 
 
 " No, I have not seen it," said our host demurely 
 and sedately. 
 
 "It contains much splendid reasoning," con- 
 tinued Mr. Crisp. " It completely destroys that 
 humbug, Darwin." 
 
 I bit my lip. If there is any intellect which I 
 thoroughly respect, it is that of the great dead 
 English thinker just named. I looked straight at 
 Mr. Crisp and smiled as amiably as I could while 
 I asked : 
 
 " Why do you call Darwin a humbug ? " 
 
THE GENTLEMAN WHO IS GLIB. 333 
 
 Mr. Crisp leaned back in his chair and surveyed 
 me. He cleared his throat very audibly indeed. 
 " Why do I call Darwin a humbug ? " he repeated. 
 He twitched one side of his face in a manner 
 which everybody must have thought comic, for a 
 universal laugh followed the grimace. I waited 
 till the laugh had ended ; then I shot in these 
 words, without a shadow of revealed annoyance, 
 but with about as much hard, sharp force as I have 
 ever employed : 
 
 " Pardon me, but that was my question, and I 
 did not know that your hearing was defective." 
 
 " Oh ! " said my combatant, stroking his clean, 
 bluish chin with one large hand. " It is n't defec- 
 tive. No, not at all. I 've got about a hundred 
 answers to that question of yours, and I was paus- 
 ing to think of the weakest one. It '11 be quite 
 enough of a crusher, I can tell you that." 
 
 Another loyal and hearty laugh instantly fol- 
 lowed from the assemblage. But here Mr. Crisp 
 waved his right hand, bidding the laugh subside. 
 His face had become very serious. He was evi- 
 dently meditating upon his " crusher." He had a 
 voice of great bass volume and compass when he 
 chose to call forth its deeper qualities, and he 
 chose to call them forth now. 
 
 " I guess I 'm a good deal of a plainer man than 
 you are, Mr. Manhattan. I dare say I have n't 
 got much modern brains or much modern educa- 
 tion ; but I think the most honest way of telling 
 you why I consider Darwin a humbug is to state 
 
334 SOCIAL SILHOUETTES. 
 
 that lie lias presumed to fling insults at the Al- 
 mighty." 
 
 It is my impression that I slightly curled my lip 
 here. I was very cool, very self-possessed. And 
 I said, without raising my voice above the ordinary 
 tone : 
 
 " Your brains, and education are too widely 
 conceded for your own disparagement of either to 
 affect so secure a reputation regarding both. At 
 the same time, if your statement that Darwin has 
 ever insulted the Almighty is your weakest answer 
 to my question, I must beg that you will supply 
 me with a stronger one among the hundred 
 others which you profess to have at your com- 
 mand." 
 
 "Indeed! And why?" 
 
 " Why ? " I gently repeated. " Because I abso- 
 lutely deny that the great philosopher mentioned 
 has in any printed page of his writings acquitted 
 himself with the silliness you record against him." 
 
 A dead silence ensued. The favorite had waved 
 his hand. There was to be no more laughter. My 
 extinction, my annihilation, was to be accomplished 
 in a wholly grave and sober way. 
 
 "Just wait," I heard one adherent whisper to 
 another. " He '11 let himself loose in a minute." 
 
 He did " let himself loose " promptly, and to 
 this effect, leaning still farther back in his chair, 
 and frowning upon me with a mighty grandeur: 
 
 " Oh, so you think it silliness, do you, my friend? 
 Well, now, there you and I agree, /think it sil- 
 
THE GENTLEMAN WHO IS GLIB. 335 
 
 liness, but I think it more ! Yes, sir, I think it 
 blasphemy, when any man tries to assert that Adam 
 and Eve were a pair of male and female gorillas*" 
 
 His frown suddenly changed to a smile. He 
 looked about among his fraternity. This was their 
 permission to laugh. And they did laugh uproari- 
 ously. I laughed too, but with a scorn perhaps as 
 weary as it was bitter. And the instant that the 
 silence allowed me, I said : 
 
 " Like many men of extraordinary wit, I fear 
 you have let this gift lead you into a temptation." 
 
 He was very nonchalant now. He had appar- 
 ently conquered. He could afford to be humor- 
 ously interrogative. 
 
 " Ah ? Indeed ? What temptation ? " 
 
 "That," I replied, "of putting a mask upon 
 ignorance." 
 
 " Ignorance ? Oho ! " He laughed in his na- 
 sally genial way. "A minute ago I was silly. 
 Now I 'm ignorant, am I ? " 
 
 I took up an olive and bit it, shrugging my 
 shoulders the least in the world. I am sure that I 
 have never been more placidly controlled of de- 
 meanor than when I answered : 
 
 "I did not call you silly. The accusation is 
 quite one of your own invention. But I must 
 plead guilty to having called you ignorant. I do 
 not believe you have ever read a single work of 
 the scholar whom you denounce. I believe you 
 have got all your knowledge of him at second- 
 hand from the blatant and fanatical Mr. Boanerges 
 
336 SOCIAL SILHOUETTES. 
 
 Brittle, whose feverish tirades you so admire. If 
 you can mention to me the titles of four separate 
 works by the late Mr. Darwin, a writer hon- 
 ored throughout Europe for his magnificent attain- 
 ments, I will pay you public apology here at 
 this table for having called you ignorant." 
 
 He noticeably winced now. He straightened 
 himself in his chair. He almost glowered upon 
 me as he fumed : 
 
 "Young man, you are strangely personal ! " 
 
 " Of course I am personal," I replied. " In the 
 sense of accusing you of not knowing anything at 
 all about a very wonderful scientist whom you 
 assail with much abuse I ivish to be personal." 
 
 He waved his hands again. His large lips had 
 grown pale. It was plain that he was very angry. 
 " Oh, come ! " he almost stammered. "I I will 
 oblige you a second time, sir, since you are so 
 polite about it. I '11 I '11 mask my ignorance 
 once again." 
 
 " That is not fair," I persisted. " You are bound 
 to answer my question." 
 
 " Oh, I 'm bound, am I? " he muttered. " And 
 who or what binds me, if you please? " 
 
 " Consistency, fairness, justice, all bind you," I 
 said. "Come, sir, 'if you please. I want those 
 four titles. Or you need not even give so much. 
 You can indicate with your natural fluency and 
 facility of diction what the works are, provided 
 your memory temporarily fails you regarding their 
 exact names." 
 
THE GENTLEMAN WHO IS GLIB. 337 
 
 My glance was riveted upon his own as I spoke. 
 I saw it shift. I was certain that the fact of his 
 confusion and embarrassment had transpired 
 among his friends, and that they were themselves 
 exchanging. surprised looks. 
 
 "I I deny your right to make this demand," 
 he soon declared with uncharacteristic bustle and 
 flurry of manner. 
 
 "You never read a line of Darwin's noble writ- 
 ings in your life," I retorted. " Deny that if you 
 can." 
 
 "I'll not even deny it," he said with rather 
 lame disdain. " I '11 mask my ignorance, as I told 
 you, young man." 
 
 " You can't do so with bravado," I returned 
 quietly. 
 
 My host's hand grasped my arm restrainingly 
 here, but I went on with firm eye and speech : 
 
 "You are very glib, Mr. Crisp, but I do not find 
 that you are ever anything more than glib. You 
 are forever trying to bully people with your glib- 
 ness. You know little, and you think less. I am 
 not fond of telling my fellow-creatures their faults ; 
 but this is a case where provocation has been 
 pushed to extremity. If you had as many ideas 
 as you have words, you would be a great person. 
 And I am confident that those who are now de- 
 ceived into rating you as a great person need only 
 use a little shrewdness to discover their striking 
 error." 
 
 He was furious; my- host was furious; it looked 
 
338 SOCIAL SILHOUETTES. 
 
 as if his bevy of adorers would devour me in their 
 fury. I walked from the room, and presently 
 from the house ; I suppose I was somewhat furious 
 then myself. 
 
 Afterward I repented of my final attack, and 
 wrote Mr. Gentian an apologetic note. But I 
 never retracted a word of what I said to Mr. Pea- 
 body Crisp. If the same thing were to do over 
 again, I don't think I would do it; but, being 
 done, I did not waste much regret upon it. It 
 made me enemies, but not of the sort I especial- 
 ly dread. And, after all, I am of opinion that I 
 had my justification, my causa belli. There is 
 always somebody to tell a man he has had that. 
 I need not state that the large constituency of Mr. 
 Crisp never told me so. They still, most probably, 
 preserve their strict servitorship to the gentleman 
 who is glib. 
 
THE LADY WHO IS SENSATIONAL. 389 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 THE LADY WHO IS SENSATIONAL. 
 
 I WAS once seated in the lower cafe of Solari's 
 (a restaurant which we are too apt to let the 
 larger fame of Delmonico overshadow while we 
 record the growing importance of New York as a 
 city of faulty politics but fine eating), when my 
 attention was oddly attracted by a pane of glass in 
 the window near at hand. It was of the deepest 
 blood-red, and it gave me a strange, lurid, un- 
 earthly glimpse of University Place, lying just 
 outside. University Place, as the most heedless 
 observer will admit, is a street of excessive ugli- 
 ness ; but this crimson segment of it that I now 
 saw through the dyed pane transfigured it into 
 something curiously repulsive. Fascinated by the 
 oddity and quaintness of the fiery vignette thus 
 afforded, I rose and took a nearer yet broader 
 view. I seemed to be gazing upon an absolutely 
 infernal thoroughfare. The most commonplace 
 shop-fronts assumed a glaring extravagance of out- 
 line. Everything was violently and oppressively 
 red. I re-seated myself with a smile, as the com- 
 panion with whom I had been lunching surprisedly 
 watched me. He was Wilford Oldfield, a man 
 
340 SOCIAL SILHOUETTES. 
 
 twice my own age, stout, rubicund, genial, with a 
 large knowledge of men and a habit of occasional 
 cynicism as delicate as it was unobtrusive. 
 
 " My dear Mark," said Oldfield, taking an olive, 
 "have you had your first experience in looking 
 through a pane of red glass ? " 
 
 " Not exactly," I answered, in what was perhaps 
 a musing tone. "But that little glimpse I just 
 gained gave me a sensation, an impression." 
 
 " Really ? If it idealized the dinginess and 
 shabbiness of University Place, I should be inclined 
 to congratulate you." 
 
 "It did n't idealize University Place," I replied ; 
 "it intensified and exaggerated it. The whole 
 stupidity and monotony of it became sensationally 
 sanguine. It resembled a street in the planet 
 Mars." 
 
 Oldfield laughed. " You always were a sort of 
 poet in embryo, Mark," he said. " If you 'd been 
 born to a garret and a crust instead of how 
 many thousands is it a year? you might have 
 died moderately famous. One does n't meet every 
 day a man who would be reminded of anything so 
 extraordinary by merely looking through a bit of 
 dyed glass in one of Solari's windows." 
 
 " Oh, it reminded me of something else," I said, 
 "besides the planet Mars." 
 
 "What?" asked Oldfield quizzically. "The 
 planet Jupiter?" 
 
 " No," I returned. " Of Miss Judith Merivale." 
 
 My friend started, looked at me wonderingly, 
 
THE LADY WHO IS SENSATIONAL. 341 
 
 and then burst into one of his full, blithe laughs. 
 Oldfield has a laugh which is so like his stout, 
 comfortable body that I feel almost privileged to 
 call it corpulent. 
 
 " I see," he said. "And yet perhaps I miss some 
 point of your intended analogy. Explain." 
 
 " You know her as well as I do," I replied. "In- 
 deed, you ought to know her much better, Oldfield. 
 You 've been about town for a century or so, and 
 when I emerged from boyhood, only a few years 
 since, Judith Merivale was still a wealthy spinster 
 of established reputation." 
 
 "Reputation for what?" he questioned, with a 
 twinkle of his mellow brown eye under its fat, 
 wrinkled lid. 
 
 " For doing everything with red fire, just like my 
 window-pane here." 
 
 Oldfield nodded. " I do see. And I take back 
 what I said about your being an undeveloped poet. 
 ' Novelist ' would have been better. Miss Judith 
 is sensational. She is colored by her convic- 
 tions." 
 
 "And burningly," I struck in. "There are 
 some people whose lives resemble a milky, meander- 
 ing serial by Anthony Trollope, where nothing 
 more dramatic occurs than a visit of the new rec- 
 tor's wife upon the baronet's maiden daughter in 
 the first chapter, and a visit of the baronet's maiden 
 daughter upon the new rector's wife in chapter the 
 eighty-second. There are other people who remind 
 one of the analytical, immoral, sentimental, or lach- 
 
342 SOCIAL SILHOUETTES. 
 
 ryniose novels by various other authors. But Miss 
 Judith Merivale suggests the story in the ' penny 
 dreadfuls.' She is nothing, if not flamboyant." 
 
 " Do you mean that she is vulgar, Mark ? " 
 
 " Oh, no ! " I said. 
 
 And he was right. She is not. She is simply 
 flamboyant, as certain flowers are (such as a gaudy 
 marigold or a spotted dahlia), which we cannot 
 help admiring, with discreet, reserved sympathies 
 for a violet or a tea-rose. It chanced that I had 
 an engagement to drop in for some tea that same 
 afternoon at Miss Judith Merivale's house (no one 
 ever forgot the oriental "Judith," somehow, in 
 naming her), and this fact may have helped to 
 incite the rather uncharitable fervor of my recent 
 comparison. 
 
 I went to see Miss Judith an hour or two later, 
 and was received by her with a smile full of mys- 
 tery, subtlety, and magnetism. A few other guests 
 were present, drinking tea, and chatting together ; 
 but Miss Judith chose to ignore the presence of 
 these ladies and gentlemen, and devote herself, for 
 some time, exclusively to myself. 
 
 She always receives quite alone. She has a 
 mother who is never visible, and she stands, as 
 one might say, a relieved, solitary, original figure 
 in the midst of New York social life. She " got 
 in" (as the coarse phrase puts it) among people 
 who concern themselves with select surroundings, 
 a number of years ago. Some people assert that 
 she made her first success in Rome : she is very 
 
THE LADY WHO IS SENSATIONAL. 343 
 
 fond of telling you about her days, weeks, or months 
 in Rome. However this may have been, she is now 
 so securely placed that nobody ever thinks of ask- 
 ing a word with regard to her antecedents. The 
 invisible mother, and the pretty basement house 
 in Thirty-Third Street, and Miss Judith herself, 
 with her positively enormous and overwhelming 
 personality, now completely blunt all snobbish 
 inquiry. She is as much taken for granted in 
 active and existent society as one of the velvet- 
 leaved roses at one of her own tasteful little din- 
 ner-parties. 
 
 You might have thought of a rose as you looked 
 at her ; yet, if you had done so, it would have been 
 one of those sultry Jacqueminots, with petals not 
 as fresh as they once had been, but a little curled 
 and fletries at the edges. She had once had a really 
 brilliant complexion ; but a few tiny and stealthy 
 wrinkles about her large, soft gray eyes, and at 
 the corners of her full, sweet, expressive lips, now 
 somewhat mar this precious charm. Her nose, in 
 its abandonment of symmetry, should perhaps not 
 be recorded of her, so to speak : there seems even 
 a sort of ungallantry in mentioning it, since the 
 rest of her face is a sort of wistful feminine apology 
 for her having it at all. She has a figure which I 
 can no better describe than in recalling a flower 
 (it seems to me that 1 am always in some way com- 
 paring her to a flower) that has lost the first natu- 
 ral bend upon its stem. She is full of curves ; but 
 they are curves that imply an undue relaxation, 
 
344 SOCIAL SILHOUETTES. 
 
 a limpness, in fact, hardly noticed before con- 
 trolled and corrected. She possesses a real glory 
 of hair; it is red in the way that the hair of 
 Rubens's women is sometimes red, and she wears 
 it in a kind of sumptuous turmoil over her broad 
 white forehead and her sheer, sybil-like, blue- 
 veined temples. She dresses oddly, but not at 
 all aesthetically. Whistler and Alma Tadema'had 
 not yet palpably transpired as motives of reform 
 when she began to robe herself, and I think that, 
 even if they had, Miss Judith would possibly have 
 eschewed their tenets. 
 
 She received me with a burst of cordiality. 
 She had a hoarse note in her voice, which was not 
 unlike the dulcet though novel timbre in the voice 
 of Ellen Terry, that mistress of luring vocalism. 
 
 " You came," she said, as we sank on one of the 
 lounges, side by side. " I feared you would not 
 come. I am so glad that you did come ! " 
 
 I was prepared for something vivid and piercing. 
 "Why?" I inquired. 
 
 Miss Judith lowered her voice. " Oh, because I 
 wanted to ask your advice," she responded, devour- 
 ing me with her tragic gray eyes. "You know of 
 Mabel Wainwright's engagement to Charlie North- 
 river having been broken off? " 
 
 " Oh, yes ! " 
 
 "Poor Mabel did it herself, in a fit of foolish 
 petulance at nothing. And now she wants me 
 me, to act as an emissary in setting matters right 
 between them." 
 
THE LADY WHO IS SENSATIONAL. 345 
 
 " Well ? " I inquired as Miss Judith, paused, 
 " Shall you not do so ? " 
 
 " Do so ! " My companion drooped her gaze, 
 and stared down at a snake of green enamel, with 
 rubies for eyes, which she wore clasped about one 
 of her wrists. " Oh, you don't know you don't 
 understand, Mr. Manhattan ! It was because of 
 this request that I sent for you. Ah ! poor Mabel 
 thinks that a lover's quarrel is easily mended. 
 But she does not dream of the truth." 
 
 I seemed to see the glare of the footlights be- 
 tween Miss Judith and myself as I answered, 
 "What truth?" 
 
 " Charles Northriver no longer cares for Mabel," 
 she whispered. " She does not dream of this, but 
 I know it. He welcomes his freedom, while she be- 
 lieves him eating out his heart with remorse. And 
 yet what am I to do ? Think of my position ! " 
 
 I tried to look as if I were thinking of her 
 position, and Miss Judith continued in tones of 
 extreme yet smothered fervor : 
 
 " On the one hand I am swayed by every duti- 
 ful feeling of loyalty towards the friend whom I 
 prize. On the other I am thrilled yes, thrilled 
 - by indignation at the treachery of the man she 
 worships. Can I go to this man and calmly say : 
 4 Mabel repents of her severity ; she awaits you ; 
 seek her ' ? Can I do this ? No ! And why ? 
 Because that man is not only glad of his escape, 
 but because he loves another. Yes; he loves 
 Daisy Yonkers ! " 
 
346 SOCIAL SILHOUETTES. 
 
 "Are you quite sure that he does?" I ventured, 
 feeling that my first step as a so-called counsellor 
 should be a patient inquiry into facts. 
 
 " Sure ! I am absolutely confident. Daisy her- 
 self has dropped more than one pointed hint to 
 this effect. Ah ! what a subtle creature that girl 
 is ! She always makes me think of Vivien, 
 while poor Mabel she makes me think of Elaine. 
 Have you ever watched Daisy and Charlie North- 
 river when they chance to meet ? At the High- 
 bridges' dinner, last Tuesday, he sat next to her. 
 I saw him let a rosebud fall into her lap when he 
 thought no one was looking. And she cleverly 
 hid it, a little later, in the heart of her bouquet. 
 
 Mr. Manhattan ! what a cruelly deceitful world 
 this is ! I often turn sick when I think of all the 
 misery that human beings are perpetually causing 
 each other. And now what shall I do ? how shall 
 
 1 act?" 
 
 This whole lamentation on the part of Miss 
 Judith had a purely chimerical origin. The es- 
 trangement between Charlie Northriver and Mabel 
 Wainwright was a merely temporary affair. He 
 was no more in love with Miss Daisy Yonkers 
 than he was in love with the Queen of Great 
 Britain. They were simply good friends, and for 
 several years past had enjoyed pleasant, intimate 
 tete-d-tetes together, and would so enjoy others 
 in the future, perhaps, for years to come. The 
 intercession of Miss Judith between the bleeding 
 heart of Mabel and the loveless, triumphant one 
 
THE LADY WHO IS SENSATIONAL. 347 
 
 of Charlie, had never been solicited or even con- 
 ceived by either of the pair. They were perfectly 
 capable of effecting their own reconciliation. 
 Miss Judith imagined that she had been called 
 upon to act as mediator. I don't mean that she 
 fabricated any spurious story to me; I mean that 
 she merely took plain truths and clad them in the 
 mythical phosphorescence of her own fancy. 
 
 And so it is with her always. " You are late 
 for dinner, my dear Judith," some friendly hostess 
 will say to her, when she arrives, at half-past seven 
 instead of seven o'clock. 
 
 " Caroline," she will perhaps reply, with a gen- 
 tle clutch of the lady's arm, and a look from the 
 big gray eyes full of sombre eloquence, "it is 
 miraculous that you have me here at all. Just as 
 my coupS was turning the corner of Twenty- 
 Third Street, a sudden horrible, dislocating shock 
 occurred. What saved my head from being dashed 
 through the pane of the front window and del- 
 uging me with my own blood, I cannot imagine. 
 As it was, half mad with alarm, I flung open the 
 carriage-door, and committed the wild folly of 
 leaping forth upon the pavement. Luckily the 
 carriage had by this time stopped, or I should 
 now" 
 
 And so on, with every resource of florid and 
 pyrotechnic narration. The unvarnished (shall I 
 say the unfiligreed ? ) truth would have been that 
 the cab-horse had stumbled badly in taking Miss 
 Judith to her dinner-party, and that she was so 
 
848 SOCIAL SILHOUETTES. 
 
 frightened that she got out of the cab after it had 
 stopped. This, and nothing more. 
 
 There are some people of whom we say that 
 their geese are all swans. Miss Judith Merivale is 
 a person of whom it might be declared that her 
 barnyard fowls are all birds of paradise. Nothing 
 happens to her just as it happens to the remainder 
 of purblind and articulate-speaking humanity. 
 She garnishes the commonest incidents with fan- 
 tastic impromptu adornments quite her own. All 
 her acts might be described as the ordinary and 
 unusual performance, plus a kind of emotional 
 cupola. She has undoubtedly received marked 
 attention from certain members of the male sex. 
 Every episode of this sort has acquired an excep- 
 tional and startling saliency. If she ever received 
 the passionate devotion of even one particular 
 suitor whose impetuosity made her repeated re- 
 fusals each one a separate ordeal of pain, is not 
 accurately known. But she certainly has man- 
 aged somehow to invest herself with a reputation 
 for having more than once weathered severe spir- 
 itual tempests. Her residence in Europe is 
 vaguely understood to have been rendered stormy 
 by the importunities of desperate admirers. 
 
 " What a remarkably handsome man ! " I once 
 said, pausing at a certain page in her album of 
 photographs. " He is an Italian, surely, with that 
 crinkled hair and that sensitive cut of feature." 
 
 She leaned over the book, which I held, as if to 
 make sure of the likeness to which I alluded. 
 
THE LADY WHO IS SENSATIONAL. 349 
 
 Then, seeing it, she suddenly withdrew, giving an 
 almost audible shudder. 
 
 "Yes," she presently murmured. "He had 
 marvellous beauty. I I don't know why I let 
 his picture remain there. Some souvenirs have 
 not the right to exist for us, except in ashes. I 
 should have burned that one long ago. I I 
 have no idea why I did not. Have you ? " 
 
 " Not the slightest," I returned with uncompro- 
 mising dryness. 
 
 " You are always so matter-of-fact with me," she 
 said, after a pause, during which I turned over the 
 leaves of the album, and knew perfectly well that 
 she was regarding me with solemn fixity. " And 
 yet I know that you have sympathy with depths 
 and heights of feeling in others ; that you can tirer 
 sur le mors, just as that poor Julio did, when your 
 mood pleases." 
 
 " Really ? " I questioned bluntly enough. " Who 
 told you anything so absurd about me as that I 
 could or would tirer sur le mors?" 
 
 She gave a soft, long laugh. " Do you suppose 
 that I have not heard certain things as well as 
 others ? " she went on. " Do you suppose I am 
 ignorant of that little rosy incident in your life 
 when you were so infatuated with Cora " 
 
 I prevented her from finishing the name by 
 dropping her heavy album upon the floor. I did 
 it as if by accident, and while I picked the volume 
 up I said apologetically : 
 
 " I beg pardon, Miss Judith, for nearly breaking 
 
350 SOCIAL SILHOUETTES. 
 
 your album. But it was a little too ponderous 
 for my knees." 
 
 She immediately saw (or chose to see) me in 
 her light. Her manner would now have done for 
 that of a leading lady in one of Sardou's or Au- 
 gier's most bristling comedies. She raised her 
 forefinger and shook it. She drooped her head 
 side ways, and gave all her figure a languid curve. 
 
 " Ah ! you are supernaturally clever,'" she said. 
 " What a diplomatist you would have made ! You 
 have every device of concealment au bout des Uvres 
 and at your fingers' ends as well. And yet how 
 idle to try and deceive me, who read you so well ! 
 I have learned to read both men and women ah, 
 too well ! It so often fatigues me to think of my 
 own dreary and ravaging experiences." 
 
 It also fatigued me to think of them especially 
 as I distrusted them. I am afraid that on this oc- 
 casion I made my ennui only too clearly manifest. 
 
 " I sometimes believe that she has no heart 
 that she is entirely made up of this melodramatic 
 affectation," I once said to a sensible woman who 
 knows her well, and likes her as I confess that I 
 do, in spite of every rational and tantalizing objec- 
 tion to such a result. 
 
 " You mistake," said the lady my friend and 
 Miss Judith's as well. "She has a very good and 
 honest heart. She is a woman both of large natu- 
 ral feelings and capable talents." 
 
 " Oh, I admit her talents." 
 
 *' But she has more than those. Aufond she is 
 
THE LADY WHO IS SENSATIONAL. 361 
 
 thoroughly genuine. She rings true when you 
 sound her vigorously." 
 
 " I have never sounded her vigorously. I should 
 not dare. I have an idea that it might cause a 
 clamor which would be heard from here to Phila- 
 delphia." 
 
 " Not at all," came the reply. 
 
 "Are you serious? " I said interestedly. 
 
 " Yes. Judith is simply of the romantic tem- 
 perament. It is her temperament that makes peo- 
 ple laugh at her. She has never done a really 
 wrong tiling in her life ; she is, on the contrary, 
 brimming with good and wholesome impulses. I 
 distrust all her suggestions regarding that eventful 
 Roman and Parisian past. I don't believe she has 
 ever known a man to be really very much in love 
 with her since she left school." 
 
 " Truly ? Do you think it could have been her 
 unsympathetic nose ? " 
 
 " Now, don't be cruel. It is n't like you. Judith 
 does n't deserve it, either. She can't resist posing. 
 If she had been a man, she would have done the 
 most outre and. abnormal things." 
 
 " She does them now." 
 
 " Not at all. She merely indicates them. Per- 
 haps she even persuades herself that she has done 
 them. In any case, she refers to imaginary ex- 
 ploits as if they were real." 
 
 "Oh!" I laughed, "that sort of conduct is 
 sometimes called by a bad name." 
 
 " I know. You mean that it is called hypocrisy. 
 
352 SOCIAL SILHOUETTES. 
 
 But Judith's hypocrisy is only skin-deep. l A 
 primrose by the river's brim ' is not a primrose to 
 her at all : it is a flaunting peony or a flaring mar- 
 igold. I grant all that nonsense in her. But she 
 has deeper, truer traits, which make such superfici- 
 ality of little import to those who know her well." 
 
 I pondered these tidings after having received 
 them. Their source made them worthy of consid- 
 eration. 
 
 Possibly our mutual friend is right. Still, I 
 retain my doubts. However, I may be wrong. 
 Women know women best. Allowing that this 
 last merciful judgment is the true one, I neverthe- 
 less maintain that to pass through life wrapped in 
 such an emblazoned garment of outward insincer- 
 ity is hardly excused by the possession of rich fem- 
 inine virtues behind it. 
 
 I am at present awaiting a change for the better 
 in Miss Judith's daily deportment. I want to hear 
 of her that she has walked from the Brunswick 
 Hotel to Central Park without thinking the act 
 worthy of special and agitated chronicling. I 
 want to feel that I am not forever looking at her 
 through that blood-red pane of glass in Solari's 
 window. Our friend assures me that the moment 
 she falls fairly and firmly in love, she will forsake 
 all her distressing and tedious caprices. 
 
 " But meanwhile," I ask, " who is to fall fairly 
 and firmly in love with her ? I anticipate with in- 
 terest and anxiety the lover who shall work this 
 incredible change." 
 
THE LADY WHO is CONSERVATIVE. 353 
 
 " Oh, he will come," says my friend confidently. 
 " He will come, some day." 
 
 " But what will he be when he does come ? " I 
 question. 
 
 "He will be a man, of course." 
 
 " Excuse me," I respond, still thinking of the 
 window at Solari's. " I have my belief that he 
 will be well, let us say some stray inhabitant of 
 the planet Mars." 
 
354 SOCIAL SILHOUETTES. 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 THE GENTLEMAN WHO LIVED TOO LONG. 
 
 WHAT man who lias ever gone into the whirl and 
 glitter of his first ball does not clearly remember 
 it ? I remember mine. I was about twenty-three, 
 and I appeared in a room filled with lights, flowers, 
 music, dancing or sitting guests, hilarious festivity, 
 and yet I did not know a soul with whom I could 
 exchange a single authorized word. 
 
 True enough, I was Mark Manhattan. But who 
 knew or cared for that? I was young, and I had 
 never been seen before. I had bowed to my host- 
 ess, and passed on. Other people, I perceived, 
 were bowing and passing on. But nobody passed 
 on as I did, without finding somebody else whom 
 he could pause beside and talk to. I could not find 
 a soul. I roamed hither and thither, en martyr. 
 
 And yet everyone was staring at me, or so I felt. 
 I sidled near an alcove, and found that my back 
 had come into contact with two male and female 
 beings seated there. I blundered away, murmur- 
 ing an apology, which was perhaps unheard above 
 the brisk and dulcet waltz. I discovered a small 
 knot of observant gentlemen, and shrank behind 
 one of them, whose shoulders were shieldingly 
 
THE GENTLEMAN WHO LIVED TOO LONG. 355 
 
 broad, and whose general physical height and bulk 
 offered a most tempting ambuscade. But suddenly 
 this gentleman, just as I had cleverly ensconced 
 myself in his rear, made a dash forward for the 
 purpose of joining some passing lady, and I was 
 once more left mercilessly and glaringly revealed. 
 It seemed to me that the wide, critical stare at once 
 began again. Was I quite sure that there was noth- 
 ing in my costume out of order ? Had I given 
 sufficient attention to my white necktie ? Might 
 it not have drooped, sagged, grown demoralized ? 
 Did my new coat fit me rightly ? Were my trousers 
 bagging at the knees? Had my chaste oval of 
 shirt-bosom become wrinkled ? Some of the beau- 
 tiful young girls, with their milky necks and arms, 
 and their ethereal dresses, seemed to pass me in a 
 sort of lovety disdain. " Why do you come here 
 at all, you horrid young hobbledehoy ? " their red, 
 smiling lips seemed to inquire. I wondered 
 whether it would look very strange if I slipped 
 out of the rooms by a back door, thence up stairs, 
 and thence, after procuring my wraps, down again 
 to the street. Of course, such a proceeding would 
 be noticed at this early hour of the evening, and 
 especially as my appearance had caused so uni- 
 versal and extraordinary a scrutiny. But, even if 
 it did make them talk a little, why should I care ? 
 I meant never, never to go into society again. I 
 was not fitted for it; perhaps I was above its 
 flippancies; perhaps I was below its graces and 
 felicities. However this might be, I had emphat- 
 
356 SOCIAL SILHOUETTES. 
 
 ically seen my last evening of mirth and melody, 
 of revelry and roses. 
 
 While this gloomy resolution was shaping itself 
 within my spirit, I found myself affably addressed 
 by a person standing at my elbow. He was an 
 elderly gentleman, and he then appeared to my 
 grateful mind the most charming elderly gentle- 
 man in all the world. It was so delightful to be 
 noticed at last in a conversational way to feel 
 one's self an appreciable unit in the ignoring 
 throng. I looked into the face of my companion 
 while he spoke, and at first decided that he was a 
 personnagc. His pure white mustache flowed 
 toward either pink cheek in rippling fulness ; his 
 white hair, still abundant, gleamed above a pair of 
 restless hazel eyes ; his form was compact and of 
 good apparent capability. He had a bunch of vio- 
 lets in the lappel of his coat, and he posed his arms 
 with a jaunty curve. He was clearly old, and yet 
 a most elastic and potent vitality still dwelt in 
 him. You felt that his foot was planted upon the 
 floor with a firmness to which his actual age did 
 not correspond. 
 
 But closer observation soon resulted in a new 
 judgment. His impressiveness was wholly physi- 
 cal and facial. It was indeed hardly even the 
 latter ; for when you looked well into his coun- 
 tenance you saw there a certain vacancy that 
 matched the inane quality of his words. Later it 
 became plain to me that he would just as soon 
 make himself audible in my society as in that of 
 
THE GENTLEMAN WHO LIVED TOO LONG. 857 
 
 anyone else. He had really nothing to say ; it 
 was all a stream of copious, artless prattle. It 
 was about the weather, about the heat of the 
 rooms, about the temperature desirable at a ball, 
 about a ball last night where the temperature was 
 just high enough, about the new way in which 
 young girls wore their hair, about the prevalence 
 of white dresses causing the whole festival to lack 
 gayety. And sometimes it was about absolutely 
 nothing, in so far as I could ascertain, while he 
 babbled on in his short, jerky sentences, and in his 
 guttural, monotonous, but entirely genial tones. 
 
 I noticed that he bowed often, as the ladies with 
 their escorts moved past us, and that many bows 
 were given him in return. He appeared to know 
 everybody, as the phrase goes. I had said very 
 little myself thus far ; but feeling that he doubt- 
 less had it in his power to make me acquainted 
 with at least three-quarters of the assembled guests, 
 if so disposed, I ventured to sound his good nature 
 on this important point. I began by telling him 
 that I had hoped to meet a few of my relations 
 there that night, but that none of them chanced 
 to be present, a circumstance which I was com- 
 pelled to regret, as it prevented me from securing 
 an introduction to any of the attractive young 
 ladies whom I saw on all sides. " And to-night,?' 
 I finished, " is really my first appearance in New 
 York society." 
 
 " I know nearly everybody," he secretly glad- 
 dened me by saying in his rapid, spasmodic, cordial 
 
358 SOCIAL SILHOUETTES. 
 
 way. " I guess I could fix things for you. Let 's 
 see you said your name was " 
 
 I Lad not said what my name was, but on hear- 
 ing it the gentleman grasped my hand and declared 
 himself on the best of terms with about fifty of 
 my relations. He talked so much of the large 
 Manhattan family, flying from members of it who 
 lived to members of it who had long ago been 
 dead, that I conceived a fear lest he should quite 
 forget his previous offer. 
 
 But he did not forget it ; or rather a gentle re- 
 minder on my part stopped the ample current of 
 his reminiscences, and I was subsequently made 
 to know several of the ladies present. I owe to 
 him my launching, as it were, upon the social 
 stream. And I soon learned just who the gentle- 
 man was by whose kindness I had benefited. 
 
 His name was Billington, and for years he had 
 been called Old Beau Billington. His age was 
 estimated to be seventy, if a day, though he might 
 even have been older. There was a time when he 
 appeared in the exclusive circles of New York, 
 and received many sidelong looks of distrust. 
 Few strangers ever crossed, in those days, our 
 quiet Knickerbocker limits. Mr. Billington was 
 reported to have come originally from an Eastern 
 State, but he had lived several years abroad. It 
 was such a picturesque thing, then, to have lived 
 several years abroad ! But a great deal of suspi- 
 cion at first attached to the brilliant new-comer, 
 who danced the antique cotillon with so ravish- 
 
THE GENTLEMAN WHO LIVED TOO LONG. 359 
 
 ingly graceful a pigeon' s-wing, who wore his stock 
 with so modish an elegance, and who whispered 
 compliments garnished by so novel an embellish- 
 ment of dainty French idiom. But for some time 
 Beau Billington had to carefully work his way. 
 Our grandmothers remember being cautioned 
 against him in their girlhood. Bowling Green 
 was then the Madison Square of our little provin- 
 cial, semi-Dutch New York, and more than one 
 pretty girl was instructed by her sedulous mother 
 to turn her face in another direction when she met 
 Mr. Billington strolling in beflowered waistcoat 
 and with nicely-poised cane along the streets bor- 
 dering on that miniature park. The Amsterdams, 
 Ten Eycks, and Van Twillers for the most part 
 disapproved of him. He lived on an income of 
 his own, and did no business. It was such an 
 unprecedented thing for any young gentleman, at 
 that time, to do no business ! It seemed quite 
 shocking that he should haunt the breezy Battery 
 of an afternoon, while all the scions of respectable 
 families were poring decorously over ledgers and 
 accounts in the offices of their merchant parents. 
 But the blooming daughters of Knickerbocker- 
 dom did not all obey the parental behest. Some 
 of them rankly and daringly disobeyed it. They 
 found Beau Billington, whose clothes fitted him to 
 such perfection and whose foreign touches were so 
 irresistibly winsome, a great deal more interesting 
 than their brothers and cousins and friends, who 
 held it disreputable to be seen smoking a cigar in 
 
360 SOCIAL SILHOUETTES. 
 
 "business hours," and who cared as much for a 
 verse of poetry as for the Koran or the Talmud. 
 Beau Billington cared for poetrjr, and could write 
 stanzas of it that were simply adorable. He had 
 met Lord Byron abroad, and had once spent an 
 evening in his company. There was a fascinating 
 wickedness about this fact if fact it could really 
 be termed. His stanzas all had the most romantic 
 ring. They were full of phrases like, " Fair lady, 
 at thy shrine I lay my heart," and 
 
 " When silver Dian beams above, 
 
 And summer dewdrops glisten clear, 
 I drop, in memory of my love, 
 A tender but respectful tear." 
 
 Certain copies of Mr. Billington's poetic tributes 
 went fluttering like little insidious doves among 
 the genteel maidens of old New York. But, unlike 
 doves, they carried trouble instead of peace below 
 their sly literary wings. And one day society 
 woke to the alarming news that Miss Elizabeth 
 Manhattan (very probably one of my own direct 
 ancestresses) had openly braved the wrath of both 
 her parents, and declared that she would either 
 marry Beau Billington or live and die a spinster. 
 The young lovers had been caught, one spring 
 afternoon, together, wandering in sweet converse 
 far out into the country. They had crossed the 
 sluggish little canal that is now Canal Street, and 
 before the cruel destroyers of their peace pounced 
 upon them they must have reached those leafy, 
 rural regions which lay where Union Square now 
 
THE GENTLEMAN WHO LIVED TOO LONG. 361 
 
 lifts to an unmindful public its libellous statue of 
 Lincoln. 
 
 But they were dragged apart, and a great scandal 
 followed. Beau Billington, deluged with senti- 
 mental sympathy from one source, and pelted with 
 animadversions from another, remained majesti- 
 cally constant to his aristocratic sweetheart. Pop- 
 ular feeling ran high ; everybody took either one 
 side or another. The entire Van Horn family cut 
 every member of the Schenectady family, one 
 Sunday morning, at the door of Old Trinity, 
 just after church, in consequence of different opin- 
 ions on this mighty and absorbing subject. There 
 was even some talk of a duel between Beau Bil- 
 lington and a fiery young brother of poor Eliza- 
 beth Manhattan. The duel was to take place 
 somewhere " across the river ; " report even named 
 the precise historic spot in which Burr had killed 
 Hamilton. But I believe there is no doubt that 
 the duel failed to take place. 
 
 Something sadder took place, however. Eliza- 
 beth paled, faded, and drooped in her captivity. 
 Her parents continued relentless. She was a great 
 heiress great, that is, for those days ; she would 
 probably inherit, if she lived, the massive sum of 
 fifty thousand dollars. Her father was a very rich 
 man ; he had four children, and it was confidently 
 expected that they would receive a fortune of at 
 least two hundred thousand dollars between them. 
 
 But poor, love-lorn Elizabeth inherited nothing. 
 Jt is stated that she died literally of a broken 
 
362 SOCIAL SILHOUETTES. 
 
 heart. I am writing of generations ago. Hearts 
 were more brittle in New York society then than 
 now. They broke then sometimes ; now they get 
 sprained a little, like a wrist or an ankle, and 
 ultimately recover. 
 
 Beau Billington's fidelity survived the death of 
 his Elizabeth. He never married. He went to 
 Boston and lived there for two or three years, and 
 at length returned to New York. All the slander- 
 ous stories about his being a moneyless adventurer 
 were slowly and thoroughly refuted. He had 
 been in every respect what he had represented 
 himself. His attachment to the young heiress, 
 from whom he was so mercilessly torn, clad him 
 with a new charm, melancholy and delicate, as 
 years slipped on. His fealty to her memory kept 
 his popularity forever fresh. He was still young, 
 and still unusually handsome. He wrote new 
 verses for the albums of many devout feminine 
 friends. But they were all tinged with the same 
 hue of sadness. " The loved and the lost " re- 
 curred again and again amid their funereal iambics. 
 
 And here comes the real pathos of my history. 
 Beau Billington gradually grew old ; but he grew 
 old in the most unskilful and injudicious way. If 
 he had died at forty, his fame as a new Abelard of 
 constancy might have been preserved intact. If he 
 had retired from the world at forty-five, there 
 might still have remained a rich chance for his 
 future poetic and legendary coronation as hero 
 and martyr. Years of gout and rheumatism, 
 
THE GENTLEMAN WHO LIVED TOO LONG. 363 
 
 passed in seclusion, would still have left his chiv- 
 alrous renown untarnished. But he chose to 
 linger in drawing-rooms until every vestige of 
 youth had departed from him. His superabun- 
 dant physical health, and his undying love for the 
 pomp and glitter of fashion, had ruined him as a 
 type of manly devotion. He became a senile 
 bachelor, whom everyone tolerated and laughed at. 
 
 Thus he stood on the evening we met. The 
 grandchildren and the great-grandchildren of all 
 those who once made his name a sort of social 
 war-cry, lazily recollected his old prestige while 
 they yawned at the dreary figments of his wander- 
 ing brain. He was like a theatre from which the 
 audience have departed, and in which the lights 
 of the auditorium burn no longer, while, strangely 
 enough, the performance on the stage still contin- 
 ues, but with what mockery of its old alertness, 
 vigor, and vivacity ! How tame and thin it looks 
 and sounds beside the energy and ring of the old 
 entertainment ! 
 
 The romance lingering about this plaintive 
 little story of the old Beau's past devotion ap- 
 pealed to me at once. I don't pretend to declare 
 why. I suppose it was because one has grown to 
 expect nothing of this sort in our big, hard, cold 
 city, which imports its sentiment as it does its 
 bric-d-brao. I have always had a tenderness for 
 Bowling Green, too, and the Battery. Any affair 
 of the heart which occurred there a good many 
 years ago was like finding, when I heard it, a 
 
364 SOCIAL SILHOUETTES. 
 
 pretty picture to fit a quaint frame long in my pos- 
 session. I tried to forget that Beau Billington had 
 been displumed as a potential gallant of song and 
 story ; that he had played his beau role quite too 
 continuously; that he resembled a tenor whose 
 Grennaro and Manrico have once drawn forth 
 wildest plaudits, but who has long outsung his 
 prime, and gets the bitter wage of silence where 
 golden enthusiasm cheered him. I tried to forget 
 this, and very fairly succeeded. Instead of en- 
 couraging such disillusionment, I dipped the 
 brush of fancy, as one might say, into colonial 
 coloring, and saw the lovers strolling together on 
 the airy Battery, he with a ruffled shirt-bosom, 
 and she in a poke-bonnet and mitts. I saw the 
 rows of prim houses near by, with their plain 
 black iron railings and their white arched door- 
 ways and the dormer-windows standing forth 
 from their sloped roofs. Beau Billington and his 
 sweetheart were so much more agreeable to think 
 of than if they had been two modern lovers prome- 
 nading along the brown-stone smartness of Fifth 
 Avenue, she with French heels that hurt her, 
 and he with an English collar that hurt him ! 
 
 I was very kind to Beau Billington for a year or 
 two after that. And sometimes being kind to him 
 meant being talked to by him for perhaps twenty 
 good minutes in some such strain as the following: 
 
 " Yes, that little thing over there in blue (or is 
 it pink? yes, pink I declare I forgot to call 
 the color by the right name yes, really I did). 
 
THE GENTLEMAN WHO LIVED TOO LONQ. 365 
 
 Well, now, what was I just saying ? Oh, yes ! you 
 need n't tell me " (Beau Billington hated an in- 
 terruption as though it were a troublesome insect), 
 " for I recollect perfectly well. It was about that 
 little thing over there in blue I mean pink 
 yes, pink. Who 'd ever suppose she could be Mar- 
 garet Cartwright's great-grandchild? I I do 
 believe there must be some mistake. I used to 
 know Margaret Cartwright as well! Why, bless 
 my soul, she married a man old enough to be her 
 father Colonel Preston, a Southerner, who 'd 
 been all through the Revolution. Made her an 
 excellent husband, though. Poor fellow, he died 
 long before she did. But not of old age died 
 from one of his wounds caught cold in it going 
 one very cold night to the firemen's ball. We 
 used to have firemen's balls in those days, and 
 some of the biggest folks in the city would go to 
 'em, too. You see, the whole fire department was 
 different then from what it is now. They did n't 
 have any horses hitched to the engines, you under- 
 stand no horses at all and " 
 
 Perhaps I would break in just here with a 
 polite statement that I knew well how the old fire 
 department in New York had been managed (or 
 mismanaged, should I have said) ; and then, 
 backing away with a smile or a wave of the hand, 
 I would leave Beau Billington to find some other 
 recipient of his garrulity. For, on the whole, 
 being kind to him was by no means always a 
 sinecure. 
 
366 SOCIAL SILHOUETTES. 
 
 At length 1 awoke one evening to the fact that 
 I had not seen the old gentleman for several 
 weeks. Learning his residence, I called there. I 
 found him lying back in an arm-chair, quite alone. 
 The chamber bore no signs of poverty, but it was 
 grim and stiff in all its appointments. It needed 
 the evidence of a woman's touch. I thought of 
 
 o 
 
 the dead and gone Elizabeth. How different every- 
 thing would have been if But, good heavens ! 
 of what was I thinking? Elizabeth, even if she 
 had married Beau Billington, might have lived to 
 a good old age and still long ago have been in her 
 grave. 
 
 The old invalid smiled when he saw me ; but 
 while I sat down beside him and took his hand, he 
 gave me no further sign of recognition. His old 
 voluble tongue was silent forever. His paralysis 
 had affected him most of all in that way. Every 
 morning he would be dressed and go to his chair, 
 walking feebly, but still walking. And there he 
 would sit all day, never speaking, yet smiling his 
 dim, vacant, pathetic smile, if the doctor or the 
 landlady or his valet addressed him. 
 
 He was quite deserted by all his friends. No ; 
 I should say that he had no friends left to desert 
 him. He had lived too long. There was no one 
 to come except me. And I, strangely enough, 
 was a Manhattan, a kinsman of his long-lost 
 Elizabeth. Of course, if he had had any kindred 
 here, it would have been otherwise. But there 
 was not a soul to whom one could say, " Old Beau 
 
TEE GENTLEMAN WHO LIVED TOO LONG. 367 
 
 Billington is dying at last, and the tie of blood 
 makes it your duty to seek him out and watch be- 
 side him." As for his kindred in other cities or 
 States, no one knew them. And if any had been 
 found there, they would doubtless have been per- 
 fect strangers to him, the children and grand-chil- 
 dren of vanished cousins. 
 
 He had lived too long ! 
 
 Often during the days that followed, while I sat 
 beside his arm-chair, I told myself that there was 
 infinitely more sadness in a fate like his than in 
 having died too early. The gods had never loved 
 any human life of which they were willing to 
 make so lonely and deserted a wreck as this. 
 
 At last, one spring evening, at about six o'clock, 
 I chanced to be sitting in his chamber. He had 
 dozed much during the day, they told me ; but I 
 fancied, that, as I took his hand and looked into 
 his hazel eyes, there was a more intellectual gleam 
 on his face than he had shown for weeks past. A 
 window was open near his arm-chair; the air was 
 bland as June that evening, though as yet it was 
 only early May. I had brought some white and 
 pink roses, and had set them in a vase on the 
 table at his side, and now their delicious odor 
 blent in some subtile way with the serenity of the 
 chamber, the peace and repose of its continual oc- 
 cupant, the drowsy hum of the great city as it 
 ceased from its daily toil, and the slant, vernal 
 afternoon light. 
 
 Suddenly he turned and looked at me ; and I 
 
3G8 SOCIAL SILHOUETTES. 
 
 at once saw a striking change in his face. I could 
 not have explained it; I simply understood it, 
 and that was all. 
 
 I bent over his chair, taking his hand. It occurs 
 to me now, as I recall what happened, that I could 
 not possibly have been mistaken in the single 
 faintly-uttered word which appeared to float forth 
 from under his snow-white mustache. And that 
 word (unless I curiously underwent some delu- 
 sion) was " Elizabeth" 
 
 The next instant his eyes closed. And then, 
 only a short time later, I stood by his arm-chair 
 and smelt the roses as they scented the sweet, 
 fresh spring twilight, and thought, with no sense 
 of death's chill or horror, 
 
 " Perhaps there is a blessing, after all, in having 
 lived too long, if only one can pass away at the 
 end as peacefully as Old Beau Billington." 
 
BY THE SAME AUTHOR 
 
 SONG AND STORY 
 
 x Vol. i2mo. $1.50. 
 
 " He has jets and impulses of genius." Nation. 
 
 " Never falling into the snare of sound for sweet sound's sake only, his 
 pregnant lines are nevertheless harmonious, as though his sole aim were har- 
 mony. . . . He has a clear appreciation of values; his quietest and most sub- 
 dued tone is instinct with the glow of vitality. Here, too, we perceive the 
 definiteness and reach of his imagination; the clearness of his vision and of 
 his rendering of the vision ; his excellent sense of proportion. . . . The 
 poem in some respects the most remarkable of the whole collection is a 
 short lyric entitled ' Behind History.' There is contained in this poem what 
 most writers would require a volume to render. By masterly suggestiveness 
 and lucidity of expression MR. FAWCETT has included everything : he has 
 taken in the whole world of a surging and destructive passion. Yet the 
 marvellous condensation is accomplished apparently with perfect ease, with 
 no trace of the ' labor to be brief.' " The Week. 
 
 "Rises at times into enchanting beauty of treatment." Cleveland 
 Leader. 
 
 "Enough has been quoted in this brief review to show that MR. 
 FAWCETT has the ability to take a high rank among rising American, 
 poets." Boston Transcript. 
 
 " This Greek art is clear of sight and fine in work ; the delicately 
 chiselled lines of verse cut clearly into the imagination, and leave there 
 pictures, striking, rare, and of almost startling newness. Then there is al- 
 ways a cumulative force, gathering and consummated in the last verse. . . . 
 The poem which rises supreme among its fellows, in eloquence, in unsur- 
 passed rhythm and grandest music, is The Doubter.' Like his former 
 poem, 'The Iceberg,' it is a rare literary treat, something to be remembered 
 forever. If all the other poems were unworthy of a place in the volume with 
 this (which they are far from being), SONG AND STORY would still claim, 
 with justice, a very high place in English poetry." University Monthly. 
 
 "EDGAR FAWCETT the poet is in every way the peer of EDGAR 
 FAWCETT the novelist, and saying that is surely awarding him very high 
 and very generous praise. MR. FAWCETT is one of the most finished of our 
 literary artists ; and whether it be in poetry, or whether it be in prose, his 
 work betrays the same deft touch, the same exquisite polish, the same sat- 
 isfying completeness, vivid play of fancy, potent moral force, rich thought, 
 and delighting facility of expression." The Beacon. 
 
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