Life — November 29, 1883 — page 11: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

“ Upon ber deck two ghastly sprites re playing « gue of cards.”* As soon as that word was plainly heard, Uprose my ghostly men, And dropping in fine, the name “old line,” They became “* independents” then. Now by their aid the wreck was stayed, Me tosetd bis By the men of each degree, ep. But not a thing did they leave for me, . Noteven an LZ.D./ Now, this is my fate, thus to relate To all the people free, That the man who only cares for pelf, Whose only object is himself, The sooner, the better, he ’s laid on the shelf, To save our dear countree. When thus he found that an honest heart Wins a more successful fame, A better judge of politics, That delegate became. AUREA. AMERICAN ARISTOCRACY. No. X. ‘UWhy, so didst thou: Seem they grave and learned? Why, so didst thou: Come they of noble family ? Why, so didst thou: Seem they religious ? Why, so didst thou: Or are they spare in diet 2" Henry V., Act Iy2. THE answer to this Shakesperian conundrum is most probably that it was because that they were spare in diet. Look at Mrs. BERGAMOT MILLEFLEURS, nde BERGAMOT, relict of the late lamented ADRIAN MILLEFLEURS, who died of acute paralysis, complicated with chronic bankruptcy, some twelve years ago. Mrs. MILLEFLEURS’ position in Society, it may be safe to say, has been attained by a proud and continuous devotion to poverty. Poverty, in fact, is Mrs. MILLEFLEURS’ strong point, and her pride in its possession, is therefore pardonable. Most persons blessed with a marked talent for losing property or inability to accumulate it, are so ignorant of the true value of their gift, as actually to deplore it. Far from rising to the con- scious dignity of such a noble possession as poverty, they will endeavor to conceal it, and will on the slightest pretext, such as the demise of a rich and feeble-minded uncle, fling it away and grovel in the benighted pleasures of wealth with an abandon which confirms one’s most pessimistic view of human nature. Suth, I am glad to say, is not the case with that haughty and exclusive -LIFE: 279 set of which Mrs. MILLerLeurs is the leader. Mrs. MILLE- FLEURS recognizes the fact that there is nothing so characteristic of true blue blood as mohair furniture, a corroding mortgage, mildewed lambrequins, plenty of bills and no money. She knows that to be truly imposing, your aristocrat must ‘be .a trifle moth- eaten, Enrich him, and he straightway loses caste, even as a Pompeiian bronze depreciates when the precious green mantle of age has been polished from.it by ignorant hands. Like Stilton cheese, he is at his best when in somewhat decayed circumstances, Knowing this, and absolately certain of her own unimpeachable and steadfast impecuniosity, Mrs. MILLEFLEURS. certainly has a right to be even a trifle overbearing towards less fortunate aristo- crats to whom a greasy million or so still clings. Withal, she is gracious even to those who are rich. She knows that some of us cannot help being in affluence, and that, although we are doing our best to bequeath genteel poverty to our posterity, we are unable to quite secure it for ourselves. She therefore magnanimously accepts the will for the deed, and visits and receives us unhappy millionaires just as kindly as she would if we were paupers. Of course, going to her house, we cannot but be shamed by her palpably superior dearth of furni- ture and edibles; but the cordiality with which she receives us compensates in no small degree. Mrs. MULLeFLeurs’ drawing room, as an exhibition of poverty and hauteur, is the product of nothing less than genius. Like all the works of true genius, it is simplicity itself. The exquisitely slippery mohair sofas, a deranged spinning-wheel, half a dozen ancient instruments of torture known as straight-back chairs, a piano built when Cxsar Augustus was a little boy, an efagere with china dogs and some waxworks, a centre table with rheuma- tism in three of its legs, and a rocker which fills one with distrust —these are its belongings, and it is proudly upholstered with four blue curtains and eleven ancestors. What more eloquent of patri- cian pride? What more befitting its exponent? Here, by the hour, Mrs, MILLEFLEURS will entertain you most delightfully. Beginning by adroitly noticing that Ancestor No. 1 is a little lopsided on the wall, she launches into his minute history, which, of course, merges at length into that of Ancestor No. 2, and that again, in course of time, brings up Ancestor No. 3, and so on throughout the list. I myself have heard this so often that I can repeat the biography of each forwards or back- wards, from that of the red-nosed patriarch in a frilled shirt, who is Ancestor No, 11, to the bland young lady with lambrequins down each side of her forehead, whom I know to be Mrs. MILLE- FLEURS' maiden aunt, and concerning whose celibacy she relates a most touching and lengthy romance. “Ab!” Mrs. MILLEFLEUKS will conclude, with a sigh and a proud glance which includes all the ancestors, ‘‘times have so changed, Now it is money, money, money—nothing else, I assure you. When poor, dear grandpapa was living (there is his picture—the one with the wart on the left side of the nose) he was my mother’s father—Stephen Bergamot—of course you have heard of him, my dear; the entire family is historical—when he was living, New York was a very, very different place, Grandpapa’s house was on Bowling Green, and I often remember hearing him speak of his father-in-law, Dietrich KoBBLESTON Von KARTOFEL (the one on the left—the bald-headed one), and of how he used to talk about money to my grandmama—she was a KARTOFEL ; but, of course, the whole world knows that, my dear. There, you see her on the left of the mantel. There comicbooks.com