How the mind naturally recalls specimens of the genus Chappie when the subject of the young male aristocrat recurs to us! This descendant of a half-dozen fur traders, ferrymen, or land speculators, has become elongated and attenuated by the non-exercise of the muscles of his feet and legs in the long tramps that his forefathers used to take to barter for the peltries of the untutored Indian, exchanging rum and bad muskets therefor.
We will begin with Chappie’s lower extremities, because of the greater importance of that part of his anatomy. The pimple which surmounts his structure is hardly worthy to be called a head, and is the least important part of his makeup. Around the thin shanks of his lower limbs are imported striped trousers, in imitation of his English model; these are turned up when it rains in London. His narrow, chicken-like bosom is covered by a hand’s breadth of imported material. (There’s no heart in his bosom, nor other organs worthy of naming within his whole body; hence, a little cloth will cover his trunk.) From sloping shoulders that would have done credit to a belle of the First Empire of France, hangs, in badly wrinkled folds, the latest thing “from Poole’s, of London, y’ know!” Rising from the apex formed by the slopes of his shoulders is a thing through which he breathes, and which he calls a neck; around which, to fence it from the cold blasts of heaven, he has had built a structure which he calls a collar, modelled absolutely after that of “our late lamented Prince Clarence.” Above that thing he calls a neck is nothing; for that which in a human being would represent a face, in this creature is but a simpering mask of idiocy, arrogance, sensuality, intemperance, and licentiousness.
That thing he calls a face, with assured presumption and insulting attitude, he thrusts before the gaze and upon the attention of the daughters of the poor but honest workmen, whose children, not having a fur trader for a grandfather, have to labor. This thing—this “Chappie”—would assume the same privileges as one of the new nobility, the creation of men like McAllister and the “Patriarchs,” as those assumed by the curled and perfumed darlings of the court which surrounded the licentious Louis XV. That which from fear he would not dare to do or say among the “smart set,” he feels at liberty to do or say when thrown among the children of the poor and defenceless on a public street. It is nothing to him to insult the poor shop girl; he would say, “That is one of the evidences that I am of the upper class. It should be an honor to be spoken to by me.”
It was ever one of the idiosyncrasies of the upper classes, wherever people have allowed them to exist, to insult innocence and outrage honor. History teems with it, and “Chappie,” by tradition, thinks that necessarily he must act it, to be of the “Prince’s set.” “Chappie” thinks that the scandal of Cavendish Square was but a little episode—nothing, in fact, because the children of the poor were the only ones contaminated; for the brutes who led to these orgies in Cavendish Square had already become decayed and rotten morally.
“Chappie” in his exalted position sees in every unprotected woman (and he’ll make sure she’s unprotected) a victim upon whom to exercise his wiles, and if, God help her! through weakness, love of dress, finery, or pleasure, she allows herself to be led to lean upon his honor, she’ll fall! For “Chappie’s” honor exists only as aristocracy in America, that being a sham and a fraud, as is Chappie’s honor.
This outgrowth of accumulated wealth, this polluting toad in the pure water of public life, never has and never will, nor can he, give one atom of return to the Republic for the honor of living in it. He whose life is spent in idleness, debauchery, and sensuality regards his valet, coachman, cook, clerk, tailor, hatter, merchant, banker, as his social inferior. And he is always attached, like a barnacle, to the good Republican Ship built by Abraham Lincoln.
Is it a wonder that the people said, in November last: “We’ll burn the ship rather than endure such barnacles?”
This thing, so amusingly written of by that most excellent comic paper, Life, so ridiculed by Puck and Judge, held up for derision by the whole newspaper fraternity, is responsible for the loss of thousands of votes to the Republican party. Indignant wives, sisters, and daughters have returned with flaming cheeks to humble yet honest homes, and told the story of the insults offered them on the streets of this and other good cities in the Union by “Chappie” and those creatures of his kind; and in their telling of the story have made more votes, more Common People’s votes, than have been made by all the newspapers ever printed in the interests of the Democratic party. Each tear that was shed upon the bosom of the poor man by an honest working daughter became a nail in the coffin of the Republican party. Justly or unjustly, such is the case. The Grand Old Party had descended, in the People’s opinion, to the level of enduring representation of it by such as “Chappie.” “How have the mighty fallen!”
“Chappie,” with his vacant semblance of a head, with his trousers carefully rolled up, with his insidious smile, insinuating manner, his suggestive gestures, and ogling glances, has proven himself a valuable assistant to Mr. Harrity, Chairman of the Democratic National Committee. Steadily he has increased the waters of wrath in the reservoir of the poor man’s heart, until, bursting all barriers, it swept away “Chappie,” his “smart set,” and all, November 8, 1892.
“Chappie,” after his late and dainty breakfast and stroll down Fifth Avenue (every city has its Fifth Avenue or something like it), enabling the daughters of the poor to gaze upon his charming proportions; delighting their fancy with the possibility in the shape of finery that might be theirs would he only condescend to beckon to them; with a few chosen spirits similar to himself—all of the “smart set,” y’ know!—seeks that most discriminating and select of saloons, Delmonico’s. (And every city has its Delmonico.) There, after tickling his palate and tempting his satiated appetite with delicacies so rare and difficult of procurement that the cost of each one of such dainties would feed some poor man’s family for a fortnight; forgetting that early grandfather, the fur trader, who considered pork a feast, leans back in his chair and lisps in affected imitation of the English, “Where shall we g-o, deah boys?”