father was President, or Governor of the State," some pompous man may
say. But, by Jupiter! king of gods and men, what are _you?_ is the
instinctive response. Do you not see, our pompous friend, that you are
only pointing your own unimportance? If your father was Governor of
the State, what right have you to use that fact only to fatten your
self-conceit? Take care, good care; for whether you say it by your
lips or by your life that withering response awaits you,--"then what
are _you?_" If your ancestor was great, you are under bonds to
greatness. If you are small, make haste to learn it betimes, and,
thanking Heaven that your name has been made illustrious, retire into
a corner and keep it, at least, untarnished.

Our thirdly, is a class made by sundry French tailors, bootmakers,
dancing-masters, and Mr. Brown. They are a corps-de-ballet, for the
use of private entertainments. They are fostered by society for the
use of young debutantes, and hardier damsels, who have dared two or
three years of the "tight" polka. They are cultivated for their heels,
not their heads. Their life begins at ten o'clock in the evening, and
lasts until four in the morning. They go home and sleep until nine;
then they reel, sleepy, to counting-houses and offices, and doze on
desks until dinner-time. Or, unable to do that, they are actively at
work all day, and their cheeks grow pale, and their lips thin, and
their eyes bloodshot and hollow, and they drag themselves home at
evening to catch a nap until the ball begins, or to dine and smoke at
their club, and be very manly with punches and coarse stories; and
then to rush into hot and glittering rooms and seize very decollete
girls closely around the waist, and dash with them around an area of
stretched linen, saying in the panting pauses, "How very hot it is!"
"How very pretty Miss Podge looks!" "What a good redowa!" "Are you
going to Mrs. Potiphar's?"