Modern Living: BELMONT

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But where are the elite?

The Schönbergs made Their money honestly enough, in trade, In trolley-cars, in diamonds, bonds, or beer, Banking, or railroads, well-established here By the mid-Eighties, in an atmosphere Of opulence, unquestionably graced With what their times and peers would call good taste, Arbiters of suburban etiquette, Leaders of the town-and-country set. They learned to adapt themselves to wearing spats, Frock-coats, striped morning-trousers, bowler hats, They learned to give high teas, to ride to hounds, To keep within the proper meets and bounds, Were public-spirited, would patronize, Most lavishly, the decent charities; Noblesse oblige. Somewhere along the line The name was changed. What's wrong with that? That's fine, They earned the privilege. Give them all their due, But—weren't they still the least bit parvenu, The least bit not quite Mayflower, F.F.V., A trace this side of true gentility, A soupfon, a sous-soupçon, just below The absolute apogee of comme il faut? They did improve the breed, they kept alive The sport of kings, so that, in 1905, The naming of this racecourse set the crown Of laurel on their virtuous renown, As beautiful, as elegant a setting As one could ever hope to find for betting.

But where are the aristocrats?

Don't try

To find them in this rabble, this canaille, These sans-culottes in shirtsleeves, sans, aussi, The least investiture of quality. Off the Long Island Rail Road cars they swarm With Morning Telegraph or Racing Form And A rmstrong's Scratch Sheet, pouring towards the gates Beside which other literature awaits As benefice, whose fain purveyors call In accents more than audible by all, "Jack's Little Green Card!", "docker Lawton!!", "Hey, Got that Daily Double again today!!!" Don't trust these men, no matter how sincere Solicitude may cause them to appear.

What's all the rush? Slow down, let's wait a bit

Behind the stands, relax and sit,

Pause for a moment, take our ease

Under the overarching trees,

Find a good bench, from which to view

Lawn, gardens, mall and avenue

Along which moves the ebb and flow

Of people passing to and fro

In shadow and sun, by elm or oak, A gentler-seeming kind of folk, More leisurely, as if their ways, Inherited from better days, Knew mildness and the atmosphere Held in suspension, even here, A sense of ceremonial, Of courtesy, of ritual, As if even here, unconsciously, We moved in grave amenity, Or dwelt in grace, as if the air Bespoke us laudable and fair.

"Riders up!" The bugle sounds First Call. All eastward streams the rank processional.

But where are the patricians?

Cool it, Mac!

"The horses," Cappy says, "are on the track."

Let our eyes close, our memories watch again

Fields of our favorites, from Amblecane

To Zev, parading to the post, the bright

Silk stable-colors shining in the light,—Light blue, brown cap; all scarlet; white with green

Collar and cuffs, white cap; aquamarine,

Gold W, encircled, on the back;

Blue and white blocks; cerise, white diamonds; black

With yellow hoops; orange, black cap.

Behold