Later in the evening, came a friend to smoke a cigar. The card was lying
upon the table, and he read it with eagerness. "You'll go, of course,"
said he, "for you will meet all the 'best society.'"

Shall we, truly? Shall we really see the "best society of the city," the
picked flower of its genius, character and beauty? What makes the "best
society" of men and women? The noblest specimens of each, of course. The
men who mould the time, who refresh our faith in heroism and virtue, who
make Plato, and Zeno, and Shakespeare, and all Shakespeare's gentlemen,
possible again. The women, whose beauty, and sweetness, and dignity, and
high accomplishment, and grace, make us understand the Greek mythology,
and weaken our desire to have some glimpse of the most famous women of
history. The "best society" is that in which the virtues are most
shining, which is the most charitable, forgiving, long-suffering,
modest, and innocent. The "best society" is, by its very name, that in
which there is the least hypocrisy and insincerity of all kinds, which
recoils from, and blasts, artificiality, which is anxious to be all that
it is possible to be, and which sternly reprobates all shallow pretense,
all coxcombry and foppery, and insists upon simplicity as the
infallible characteristic of true worth. That is the "best society,"
which comprises the best men and women.

Had we recently arrived from the moon, we might, upon hearing that we
were to meet the "best society," have fancied that we were about to
enjoy an opportunity not to be overvalued. But unfortunately we were not
so freshly arrived. We had received other cards, and had perfected our
toilette many times, to meet this same society, so magnificently
described, and had found it the least "best" of all. Who compose it?
Whom shall we meet if we go to this ball? We shall meet three classes of
persons: first, those who are rich, and who have all that money can buy;