With Great Power...

The concept of noblesse oblige—the notion that wealth, power, and prestige carry a moral imperative to serve those less fortunate—stands as a weathered signpost in a world increasingly blind to its meaning. It’s not just about charity or polite gestures; it’s a binding contract, a demand that privilege be tempered with responsibility. The privileged must set examples of integrity, exceed mere decency, and, when necessary, shoulder blame to shield others or resolve crises.

An early instance of this concept in literature may be found in Homer's Iliad. In Book XII, the hero Sarpedon delivers a speech in which he urges his comrade Glaucus to fight with him in the front ranks of battle. In Pope's translation, Sarpedon exhorts Glaucus thus: 'Tis ours, the dignity they give to grace
The first in valour, as the first in place;
That when with wondering eyes our confidential bands
Behold our deeds transcending our commands,
Such, they may cry, deserve the sovereign state,
Whom those that envy dare not imitate!

This principle echoes through history, crystallized in Luke 12:48: “Everyone to whom much was given, of him much will be required, and from him to whom they entrusted much, they will demand the more.” Yet, in the garish sprawl of modern America, where wealth glitters like a casino jackpot, this ethos feels like a relic, ignored by the nouveau riche—names like Trump, Musk, and Bezos come to mind, their empires built on self-interest rather than duty.

Cast your gaze back to the 19th century, and you’ll find a different breed of elite: the “Boston Brahmins,” a clique of American families whose fortunes were forged in the opium trade with China. These weren’t petty hustlers but titans of commerce, their names—Delano, Forbes, Cabot, Lowell, Perkins, Cushing, Peabody, Astor, Sturgis, Russell, Coolidge—etched into the foundations of New England’s high society. Through firms like Russell & Co. and Perkins & Co., they dominated the China trade, trafficking not just silk and tea but opium, a commodity that fueled addiction and misery across Asia while padding their coffers. Warren Delano Jr., grandfather of Franklin Delano Roosevelt, was a linchpin, steering Russell & Co. to dominance and amassing a fortune that would shape a presidential legacy. Thomas Handasyd Perkins and John Perkins Cushing were equally pivotal, their wealth built on the same murky trade. The Peabodys and Lowells matched the Delanos in influence, while the so-called “Boston Concern”—a tight-knit web of these families—monopolized the opium market, their ships slicing through the South China Sea like knives.

This wasn’t just business; it was empire-building, cloaked in the respectability of merchant status. The Brahmins’ wealth bought them mansions, social clout, and a grip on American culture that lingers today. But noblesse oblige demands more than wealth—it demands accountability. These families, enriched by a trade that sowed chaos in China, bore a duty to wield their influence for the greater good. Instead, their legacy is a mixed bag: immense philanthropy tainted by the moral cost of their fortunes. The opium trade’s profits didn’t just build estates; they seeded institutions that define American excellence, particularly the Ivy League.

Harvard, Yale, Columbia, Princeton—these bastions of learning owe part of their early growth to the largesse of Brahmin families and other benefactors whose wealth stemmed from opium, slavery, and privateering. The Cabots, for instance, were Harvard stalwarts, their money flowing from privateering—state-sanctioned piracy against imperial ships—and the slave trade, alongside their opium ventures. They sent privateers to plunder, sold the spoils, and funneled the proceeds into Boston’s opium empire. The Lowells and Kirklands, also Harvard-linked, followed suit, their fortunes tied to the same grim trifecta: slaves, opium, and plunder. Yale’s Skull and Bones society, that cryptic fraternity of power, was reportedly bankrolled by the Russells, whose opium wealth was legendary. Columbia’s Low Memorial Library bears the name of a family steeped in the China trade, while Princeton’s early benefactor John Green funded his contributions with opium profits.

Harvard’s ties to slavery are particularly stark. Benefactors like James and Thomas Handasyd Perkins, opium traders with stakes in the Caribbean slave economy, helped sustain the university. Others profited from slave ships, plantation crops like sugar, coffee, and cotton, and the triangular trade that bound Africa, the Americas, and Europe in a cycle of exploitation. Brown, too, was shaped by benefactors who ran slave ships and milled cotton from Southern plantations. These institutions, founded to educate and enlighten, were partly built on blood money, their endowments fattened by industries that thrived on human suffering.

This history raises a thorny question: what does noblesse oblige mean when your wealth is rooted in moral rot? The Brahmins and their ilk weren’t cartoonish villains; they were products of their era, navigating a world where opium and slavery were legal, even normalized. Yet their failure to fully reckon with the human cost of their fortunes—beyond sporadic philanthropy—marks a betrayal of the principle. They built libraries, funded chairs, and shaped curricula, but did they confront the sins that made it possible? Noblesse oblige isn’t just about giving back; it’s about owning the ledger, debts and all.

Fast-forward to today, and the disconnect is starker. The modern elite—tech barons, real estate moguls, hedge fund sharks—often sidestep this moral calculus entirely. The Trumps peddle self-aggrandizement, the Musks chase galactic fantasies, the Bezoses hoard wealth while workers scrape by. Unlike the Brahmins, whose philanthropy at least left lasting institutions, today’s tycoons seem content to let society fray. The Brahmins’ opium wealth funded Harvard’s growth; Musk’s billions fund X posts and rocket dreams, not public goods. Noblesse oblige feels like a foreign language to them.

Yet the Brahmins’ legacy offers a cautionary tale. Their wealth, however tainted, seeded institutions that, for all their flaws, have shaped modern thought. Harvard and Yale produce leaders, thinkers, and innovators, even if their origins are checkered. The modern elite, by contrast, risk leaving a legacy of division and distrust. AI, a tool the Brahmins could scarcely imagine, amplifies this. In their day, wealth bought influence; today, it buys algorithms that sway elections, spread lies, or surveil dissent. The Brahmins’ opium trade harmed millions; unchecked AI could harm billions, automating inequality on a scale they couldn’t dream of.

To reclaim noblesse oblige, the modern elite must look beyond their balance sheets. Regulating AI to curb deepfakes and disinformation, funding public education, or tackling systemic inequities—these are the duties of those “to whom much was given.” The Brahmins, for all their faults, left endowments that outlived them. Today’s billionaires must ask: what will outlive their private jets and vanity projects?

The Ivy League’s tainted origins also demand reckoning. Noblesse oblige binds institutions as much as individuals. Today’s elite, and the institutions they inherit, face a choice: perpetuate a cycle of privilege or bend their power toward justice. Democracy, battered by electoral scams and tech-driven chaos, hangs in the balance. If the privileged shirk their duty, the future risks becoming a dystopia where power is coded into algorithms, and the common good is a forgotten myth. The lesson of the Brahmins is clear: great wealth demands great responsibility—or it becomes a great curse.