I have never sympathized in the wholesale abuse of New York society—and by this much-used word I mean the society defined by Noah Webster as "that class in any community which gives and receives entertainments." Necessarily a city like New York must be made up of many contrasting elements—but I believe the true leaven of good society is always here, and will in the end inevitably prevail to the leavening of the whole. One cannot fail to observe in the modern novels that profess to expose it situations that could, under no circumstances, ever have occurred in decent society. The facility with which men and women of humble antecedents reach high position here is easily explained. Their early disadvantages have taught them enterprise, to look out for their own advantage and seize every opportunity. They have ambition. Hence they are "climbers." The lowest rung in the ladder successfully reached, there is foothold for the next. They are not sensitive. "Snubbed?" said one. "Of course! Isn't everybody snubbed?" It is not wonderful that New York receives them. Their wits are sharpened. They are very agreeable, very supple, very adaptable. Au reste! Well, they learn. There are books on "Manners and Social Usages" to be had for a dime or two. There is one called "The Gentleman" which was popular in the nineties. To have read Mr. Howells on this book is to long to quote him.
"We have lately seen how damaging Mr. McAllister could make himself to the best society of New York by his devout portrayal of it, and now another devotee of fashion is trying to play the iconoclast with the ideal of gentleman.
"Do read 'Gentleman.' It is the most delicious bit of ridiculous flunkyism that has appeared yet—always excepting the great success in that line. After instructing the proposed gentleman about his cravats and pocket-handkerchief, and not to cross his legs or wink or pick his teeth, the author concludes: 'In making an offer of marriage, when the lady replies affirmatively, immediately clasp her in your arms'!"
But after all said and done against society, I have always liked it. I have not the least wish to turn reformer. It will work out its own salvation as to important characteristics, and we can afford to laugh at its ridiculous ways. We know it is "too bad for blessing," but at the same time "it is too good for banning."
"I overheard Jove," said Silenus, "talking of destroying the earth; he said he had failed; they were all rogues and vixens, going from bad to worse. Minerva said she hoped not; they were only ridiculous little creatures with this odd circumstance: if you called them bad, they would appear bad; if good, they would appear so; and there was no one person among them who would not puzzle her owl—much more all Olympus—to know whether it was fundamentally good or bad." It all depends upon the point of view, and in a difference of opinion between Jove and Minerva I do not hesitate.
But if I may be allowed one more word, I think the trouble about our New York society is that we have too much of it. We have no leisure to select. And then we seem to be always en representation—as Senior said of an American girl. We are consumed with a desire to make an impression,—that deadly foe to good manners,—or else we wrap ourselves in reserve like a garment. Of the two I think I prefer the former—anything but the icy dulness of the intense inane.
To tell the truth, we are heavy—we Americans. We cannot pass quickly, "like a bit of flame," from one thing to another. We are rarely gracious enough to wish to please, but if we do, our compliments are not an ethereal touch, but flattery broadly laid on with spade and trowel. Chesterfield says, "Human nature is the same all over the world." That is, doubtless, true,—we hear it quoted often enough,—but there is a great deal more of it in some places than in others. There is an enormous quantity of human nature in New York. After all, it is not as subtle as we imagine. Lady Mary Wortley Montagu declares that in all her life she had seen but two species of human beings—men and women! We cannot agree with her,—we have seen others,—but we have faith that all things are working together for good, and good only, in our social life, indications to the contrary, reports to the contrary, notwithstanding.
Our little house on 33d Street was the theatre of many pleasant events. There I found my friends on my Thursdays at home. There my daughter Lucy was married. Among her wedding presents was an interesting bit of embroidery from the wife of our Minister to Turkey, S. S. Cox. Mr. Cox had sent it with a letter, at the conclusion of which he explained,—remembering my supposed interest in Southern dialect,—"I am sorry to be so stupid, but the truth is I'm mighty tired! I have been toting Americans over Constantinople all day."
I answered, requesting a key to the embroidery, and added, "I am sorry to find that the onerous duties of our Minister to the Ottoman Empire include the bearing upon his back or in his arms the bodies of visiting Americans, etc. ('Tote,' an old English word now obsolete, is still used by Southern negroes for bearing a burden, not for conducting or escorting.)" Here is Mr. Cox's reply:—