A New Badge of Distinction

THE CONTRIBUTORS’ CLUB.

UNDOUBTEDLY the object of every citizen of a republic is to be distinguished and exclusive, the member of gome limited body, the bearer of some showy title, which shall mark him off from the common herd. In monarchies and aristocracies ranks and classes are the basis of social order, and go by tradition. Every son of the Austrian Kaiser is born an archduke, and every son of the Czar a grand duke. The nobility in either land is a noblesse, a titled caste ; a count’s or baron’s descendants are counts and barons to all time. Every Von is the progenitor of numberless Vons, who are all “born.” The bulk of the nation recognizes this, and does not expect to be ennobled. It is content with furnishing to the national host undistinguished privates, who never look to wear epaulettes, or even chevrons.

But in republics it is different. Equality is one watchword of the French Republic; titles have been repeatedly abolished in France, hence every Frenchman’s object is to be “decorated,” to sport a little bit of scarlet in his coat. The thirst for titles in England has advanced at an appalling rate since the country has become more democratic. It is asserted that King Edward in his two years’ reign has distributed more titles than his mother did in the twelve years preceding her death; a contrast from the days when Elizabeth was practically absolute, and the order of dukes was for fifty years extinct in England.

In the United States, we hold this truth to be self-evident, that all men are created equal. Hence every American devotes himself with a single eye to being as good as every other American and a little better — to be distinguished — unequal. Real military and naval rank is quite lost in the sea of titles acquired in the militia, bestowed by secret and fraternal orders, by colleges and universities, or derived from some political station. So many men have so many handles that if we meet an untitled friend we feel as Talleyrand did when he saw the English Ambassador at the Congress of Vienna, the only diplomat not wearing an order in the crowd of bestarred and beribboned continentals, and remarked, “Ma foi, c’est très distingué! ”

We are bad enough in the Northern States: our New England towns dub many an apothecary “ Doctor, ” many an attorney “Judge,” and — absurdity of absurdities — many a schoolmaster “Professor; ” but in others, such honorary titles are a mere civility, meaning no more than “Mr.” on an envelope. Every decent citizen is there addressed as “Cap’n; ” every keen, alert, well-todo civilian is “Jedge;” a black suit, a grave look, and a white cravat at once procure the degree of “ Dr. ” If the memorable plan of 1861 had been carried out, whereby a certain commonwealth was to be independent, or at least neutral, between the Union and the Confederacy, her new bill of rights might have claimed it as a self-evident truth that all native Kentuckians were Colonels.

There is however one place, or rather one large group of places, where equality reigns among Americans to the annihilation not merely of ranks or titles, but of all evidences of personality. A European born under whatever government can hardly understand the stern repressiveness of an American barber’s shop. There the meek visitor enters and sits down, contemplates in silence his tortured predecessors, and submits to be nothing. Europeans know that they run the risk of having their throats cut by a malignant barber, or the brush thrust into their mouths by a playful one, if he would assert his autocracy; but they expect to stay themselves. Not so the American; he is nothing, he is nobody; he has no name, not even a number, like Edmond Dantes in the Château d’If, or his own hat in a cloakroom. He waits and sees one victim after another pass from under the scythe and harrow, and hears a harsh and mysterious cry summon one after another to go to be choked; till at length all who entered before him have suffered in turn, and as the tuneless call rises through the air, he rises too, and owns himself for “Next! ”

“Next!” That is all! No name, no number, no title; no recognition of honor or rank, of citizenship or humanity, or even of independent and selfpoised existence — merely “Next,” the one who follows another, as he followed an even earlier subject. Surely the iron rule of democracy prevails in the tonsorial parlor, if not elsewhere.

And here comes l’envoy, as Don Adriano says. I have a friend who is no longer “Next.” He is a man, as Americans go, of some little distinction ; like Dr. Holmes’s Bill, he bears tacked to his name “H. O. N. and LL. D. in big brave letters, fair to see.” He even is given a seat on many a dais or platform. But all these glories, if glories they be, were for years as nothing in the capillary saloons; when one day, as he sat pondering in how many minutes he should be “Next” to be shorn in the flock of patient sheep, a courteous gaze met his own, and he heard the words, “Ready for you, Doctor,” and an impression, which he hardly dares retain in his mind, arose that a previous comer still sat unsummoned. From that hour, when he visits the wonted shambles, and yields him to the well-known steel, he is himself; he is recognized; he is identified ; he has burst the shell of “Next,” and soared to the ether of being.

We have the highest authority for believing that the rank of “Next ” especially belonged to the lost spirits. When Satan awakes from his nine days’ fall and stupor, and throws round his baleful eyes

But my friend is now raised

His crown will be kept in place by firmer hands than any archbishop’s; he will be anointed with unstinted copiousness. A peaceful glow of distinction has taken possession of his soul. He may be defeated for a city council; he may be left out from reunions in marble palaces; Elks and Red Men may bar their conclaves against him ; he may be incompetent to count as a Cincinnatus or a Colonial Dame ; stars shall not blaze on his breast, nor garters compress his leg; but a lofty and narrow portal has opened for him, — a close and massive door has shut behind him; he breathes the free existence of personality; he is no longer “Next! ”