understand them better than they know.--for they do not dream that
"old Potiphar" does any thing more than pay Mrs. P.'s bills. I see the
youths nervous about neckcloths, and anxious that their hair shall be
parted straight behind. I see them all wear the same tie, the same
trowsers, the same boots. I hear them all say the same thing, and
dance with the same partners in the same way. I see them go to Europe
and return--I hear them talk slang to show that they have exhausted
human life in foreign parts and observe them demean themselves
according to their idea of the English nobleman. I watch them go in
strongly for being "manly," and "smashing the spoonies"--asserting
intimacies with certain uncertain women in Paris, and proving it by
their treatment of ladies at home. I see them fuddle themselves on
fine wines and talk like cooks, play heavily and lose, and win, and
pay, and drink, and maintain a conservative position in politics,
denouncing "Uncle Tom's Cabin," as a false and fanatical tract; and
declaring that our peculiar institutions are our own affair, and that
John Bull had better keep his eyes at home to look into his coal
mines. I see this vigorous fermentation subside, and much clear
character deposited--and, also, much life and talent muddled forever.

It is whimsical, because this absurd spectacle is presented by
manikins who are made of the same clay as Plutarch's heroes-because,
deliberately, they prefer cabbages to roses. I am not at all angry
with them. On the contrary, when they dance well I look on with
pleasure. Man ought to dance, but he ought to do something else,
too. All genial gentlemen in all ages have danced. Who quarrels with
dancing? Ask Mrs. Potiphar if I ever objected to it. But then, people
must dance at their own risk. If Lucy Lamb, by dancing with young
Boosey when he is tipsy, shows that she has no self-respect, how can
I, coolly talking with Mrs. Lamb in the corner, and gravely looking