The Celebrity Cult of the Gilded Age
A writer in 1888 questions the bizarre, sycophantic public obsession with the ultra-wealthy, who are 'petted in Belgravia' simply for their riches.
The story, cleaned up
A cleaned-up reading of the newspaper page: spelling and layout repaired, one story lifted off a crowded page. It follows the original closely but it is not a transcription. The original page is below; read it if a detail matters.
The hero of the day had awaiting him a tremendous reception. After humanity had exhausted its store of boisterous enthusiasm, he moved with difficulty as he made his way through the crowds. Why was he carried to the skies in a storm of huzzas? What had the rich man done that should amuse and applaud him? And how many of those who went about and cried huzza! and threw up their caps in the air would be likely to get anything out of him? Many of them were unknown to him and unlikely to receive his acquaintanceship. If he has a marriageable daughter or a susceptible son and heir, then there is every reason why he should be petted in Belgravia. If he is a man known to use his money for the advancement of friends or the ruin of enemies, then it becomes a matter of prudence to be placed in his good books. But nothing of this kind is known about him. All that is known is that he is one of the richest men of the world. You and I, sir, are expected to bow down and worship him. We are to read about him in the newspapers, we are to talk about him at dinner, and to hint that he has not done anything worthy of your applause is to vote yourself out of a class of society.
“To hint that he has not done anything worthy of your applause is to vote yourself out of a class of society.”
This 1888 commentary on the 'hero worship' of the ultra-wealthy feels uncannily modern. Just as Gilded Age Seattle saw its own influx of capital and civic obsession with elite figures, today's headlines are similarly consumed by the cults of personality surrounding tech billionaires and property moguls.
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