manage, and could still walk down town and see some business
acquaintances, and inquire into stocks, and lots, and other
interesting matters; but poor Mrs. Fairchild had fairly nothing to do.
She was too rich to sew. She could buy every thing she wanted. She had
but two children, and they could not occupy all her time; and her
house and furniture were so new, and her servants so many, that
housekeeping was a mere name. As to reading, that never formed any
part of either her or Mr. Fairchild's pleasures. They did not even
know the names of half the books they had. He read the papers, which
was more than she did beyond the list of deaths and marriages--and so
she felt as if she would die in her grandeur for something to do, and
somebody to see. We are not sure but that Mrs. Simpkins would have
been most delightedly received if she had suddenly walked in upon her.
But this Mrs. Simpkins had no idea of doing. The state of wrath and
indignation in which Mrs. Fairchild had left her old friends and
acquaintances is not easily to be described.
"She had begun to give herself airs," they said, "even before she left
---- street; and if she had thought herself a great lady then, in that
little box, what must she be now?" said Mrs. Thompson, angrily.
"I met her not long ago in a store, and she pretended not to see me,"
replied Mrs Simpkins. "So I shall not trouble myself to call," she
continued, with considerable dignity of manner; not telling, however,
that she _had_ called soon after Mrs. Fairchild moved, and her visit
had never been returned.
"Oh, I am sure," said the other, "I don't want to visit her if she
don't want to visit me;" which, we are sorry to say, Mrs. Thompson,
was a story, for you know you were dying to get in the house and see
and "hear all about it."
To which Mrs. Simpkins responded,
"That, for her part, she did not care about it--there was no love lost
between them;" and these people, who had once been kind and neighborly
friends, would not have been sorry to hear that Mr. Fairchild had
failed--or rather would have been glad (which people mean when they
say, "they would not be sorry,") to see them humbled in any way.
So much for Mrs. Fairchild's first step in prosperity.
Mrs. Fairchild pined and languished for something to do, and somebody
to see. The memory of early habits came strongly over her at times,
and she longed to go in the kitchen and make a good batch of pumpkin
pies, by way of amusement; but she did not dare. Her stylish pampered
menials already suspected she was "nobody," and constantly quoted the
privileges of Mrs. Ashfield's servants, and the authority of other
fashionable names, with the impertinence and contempt invariably felt
by inferiors for those who they instinctively know to be ignorant and
vulgar, and "not to the manor born."
She accidently, to her great delight, came across a young mantuamaker,
who occasionally sewed at Mrs. Ashfield's; and she engaged her at once
to come and make her some morning-dresses; not that she wanted them,
only the opportunity for the gossip to be thence derived. And to those
who know nothing of the familiarity with which ladies can sometimes
condescend to question such persons, it would be astonishing to know
the quantity of information she extracted from Miss Hawkins. Not only
of Mrs. Ashfield's mode of living, number of dresses, &c., but of many
other families of the neighborhood, particularly the Misses Hamilton,
who were described to be such "nice young ladies," and for whom she
chiefly sewed, as "Mrs. Ashfield chiefly imported most of her
dresses," but she lent all her patterns to the Miss Hamiltons; and
Miss Hawkins made up all their dresses after hers, only not of such
expensive materials. And thus she found out all the Hamiltons'
economies, which filled her with contempt and indignation--contempt
for their poverty, and indignation at their position in society, and
the company they saw notwithstanding.
She could not understand it. Her husband sympathized with her most
fully on this score, for, like all ignorant, purse-proud men, he could
comprehend no claims not based in money.
A sudden light broke in, however, upon the Fairchild's dull life. A
great exertion was being made for a new Opera company, and Mr.
Fairchild's money being as good as any body else's, the subscription
books were taken to him. He put down his name for as large a sum as
the best of them, and felt himself at once a patron of music, fashion,
and the fine arts.
Mrs. Fairchild was in ecstasies. She had chosen seats in the midst of
the Ashfields, Harpers, and others, and felt now "that they would be
all together."
Mr. Fairchild came home one day very indignant with a young Mr.
Bankhead, who had asked him if he would change seats with him, saying
his would probably suit Mr. Fairchild better than those he had
selected, as they were front places, &c., that his only object in
wishing to change was to be next to the Ashfields, "as it would be a
convenience to his wife, who could then go often with them when he was
otherwise engaged."
Mr. Fairchild promptly refused in what Mr. Bankhead considered a rude
manner, who rather haughtily replied "that he should not have offered
the exchange if he had supposed it was a favor, his seats being
generally considered the best. It was only on his wife's account, who
wished to be among her friends that he had asked it, as he presumed
the change would be a matter of indifference to Mr. Fairchild."
The young man had no idea of the sting conveyed in these words. Mrs.
Fairchild was very angry when her husband repeated it to her. "It was
_not_ a matter of indifference at all. Why should not _we_ wish to be
among the Ashfields and Harpers as well as anybody?" she said,
indignantly. "And who is this Mrs. Bankhead, I should like to know,
that I am to yield my place to _her_;" to which Mr. Fairchild replied,
with his usual degree of angry contempt when speaking of people of no
property,
"A pretty fellow, indeed! He's hardly worth salt to his porridge!
Indeed, I wonder how he is able to pay for his seats at all!"
While on the Bankhead's side it was,
"We cannot change our places, Mrs. Ashfield. Those Fairchilds
refused."
"Oh, how provoking!" was the reply. "We should have been such a nice
little set by ourselves. And so disagreeable, too, to have people one
don't know right in the midst of us so! Why what do the creatures
mean--your places are the best?"
"Oh, I don't know. He 's a vulgar, purse-proud man. My husband was
quite sorry he had asked him, for he seemed to think it was a great
favor, and made the most of the opportunity to be rude."
"Well, I am sorry. It's not pleasant to have such people near one; and
then I am so very, very sorry, not to have you and Mr. Bankhead with
us. The Harpers were saying how delightful it would be for us all to
be together; and now to have those vulgar people instead--too
provoking!"
Ignorant, however, of the disgust, in which her anticipated proximity
was held, Mrs. Fairchild, in high spirits, bought the most beautiful
of white satin Opera cloaks, and ordered the most expensive
paraphernalia she could think of to make it all complete, and
determined on sporting diamonds that would dazzle old acquaintances,
(if any presumed to be there,) and make even the fashionables stare.
The first night opened with a very brilliant house. Every body was
there, and every body in full dress. Mrs. Fairchild had as much as she
could do to look around. To be sure she knew nobody, but then it was
pleasant to see them all. She learnt a few names from the conversation
that she overheard of the Ashfields and Harpers, as they nodded to
different acquaintances about the house. And then, during the
intervals, different friends came and chatted a little while with
them, and the Bankheads leaned across and exchanged a few animated
words; and, in short, every body seemed so full of talk, and so
intimate with every body, except poor Mrs. Fairchild, who sat, loaded
with finery, and no one to speak to but her husband, who was by this
time yawning wearily, well-nigh worn out with the fatigue of hearing
two acts of a grand Italian Opera.
As Mrs. Fairchild began to recover self-possession enough to
comprehend what was going on among them, she found to her surprise,
from their conversation, that the music was not all alike; that one
singer was "divine," another "only so so;" the orchestra admirable,
and the choruses very indifferent. She could not comprehend how they
could tell one from another. "They all sang at the same time; and as
for the chorus and orchestra, she did not know 'which was which.'"
Then there was a great deal said about "_contraltos_" and
"_sopranos_;" and when her husband asked her what they meant, she
replied, "she did not know, it was _French_!" They talked, too, of
Rossini and Bellini, and people who _read_ and _wrote_ music, and that
quite passed her comprehension. She thought "music was only played and
sung;" and what they meant by reading and writing it, she could not
divine. Had they talked of eating it, it would have sounded to her
about as rational.
Occasionally one of the Hamiltons sat with some of the set, for it
seemed they had no regular places of their own. "Of course not," said
Mrs Fairchild, contemptuously. "They can't afford it," which
expressive phrase summed up, with both husband and wife, the very
essence of all that was mean and contemptible, and she was only
indignant at their being able to come there at all. The Bankheads were
bad enough; but to have the Hamiltons there too, and then to hear them
all talking French with some foreigners who occasionally joined them,
really humbled her.
This, then, she conceived was the secret of success. "They _know_
French," she would reply in a voice of infinite mortification, when
her husband expressed his indignant astonishment at finding these
"nobodies" on 'change, "somebodies" at the Opera. To "_know_ French,"
comprehended all her ideas of education, information, sense, and
literature. This, then, she thought was the "Open Sesame" of "good
society," the secret of enjoyment at the Opera; for, be it understood,
all foreign languages were "French" to Mrs. Fairchild.
She was beginning to find the Opera a terrible bore, spite of all the
finery she sported and saw around her, with people she did not know,
and music she did not understand. As for Mr. Fairchild, the fatigue
was intolerable; and he would have rebelled at once, if he had not
paid for his places for the season, and so chose to have his money's
worth, if it was only in tedium.
A bright idea, a bold resolution occurred to Mrs. Fairchild. She would
learn French.
So she engaged a teacher at once, at enormous terms, who was to place
her on a level with the best of them.
Poor little woman! and poor teacher, too! what work it was! How he
groaned in spirit at the thick tongue that _could not_ pronounce the
delicate vowels, and the dull apprehension that knew nothing of moods
and tenses.
And she, poor little soul, who was as innocent of English Grammar as
of murder, how was she to be expected to understand the definite and
indefinite when it was all indefinite; and as for the participle past,
she did not believe _any_ body understood it. And so she worked and
puzzled, and sometimes almost cried, for a week, and then went to the
Opera and found she was no better off than before.
In despair, and angry with her teacher, she dismissed him. "She did
not believe any body ever learnt it that way out of books;" and "so
she would get a French maid, and she'd learn more hearing her talk in
a month, than Mr. A. could teach her, if she took lessons forever."
And so she got a maid, who brought high recommendations from some
grand people who had brought her from France, and then she thought
herself quite set up.
But the experiment did not succeed. She turned out a saucy thing, who
shrugged her shoulders with infinite contempt when she found "madame"
did not comprehend her; and soon Mrs. Fairchild was very glad to take
advantage of a grand flare-up in the kitchen between her and the cook,
in which the belligerent parties declared that "one or the other must
leave the house," to dismiss her.
In deep humility of spirit Mrs. Fairchild placed her little girl at
the best French school in the city, almost grudging the poor child her
Sundays at home when she must hear nothing but English. She was
determined that she should learn French young; for she now began to
think it must be taken like measles or whooping-cough, in youth, or
else the attack must be severe, if not dangerous.
Mrs. Fairchild made no acquaintances, as she fondly hoped, at the
Opera. A few asked, "Who is that dressy little body who sits in front
of you, Mrs. Ashfield?"
"A Mrs. Fairchild. I know nothing about them except that they live
next door to us."
"What a passion the little woman seems to have for jewelry," remarked
the other. "It seems to me she has a new set of something once a week
at least."
"Yes," said one of the Hamiltons, laughing, "she's as good as a
jeweler's window. It's quite an amusement to me to see the quantity of
bracelets and chains she contrives to hang around her."
"I would gladly have dispensed with that amusement, Ellen," replied
Mrs. Ashfield, "for they have the places the Bankheads wanted; and he
is so clever and well-informed, and she such a bright, intelligent
little creature, that it would have added so much to our pleasure to
have had them with us."
"Oh, to be sure! the Bankheads are jewels of the first water. And how
they enjoy every thing. What a shame it is they have not those
Fairchilds' money."
"No, no, Ellen, that is not fair," replied Mrs. Ashfield. "Let Mrs.
Fairchild have her finery--it's all, I suppose, the poor woman has.
The Bankheads don't require wealth for either enjoyment or
consequence. They are bright and flashing in their own lustre, and
like all pure brilliants, are the brighter for their simple setting."
"May be," replied the gay Ellen, "but I do love to see some people
have every thing."
"Nay, Ellen," said Mrs. Ashfield, "Is that quite just? Be satisfied
with Mrs. Bankhead's having so much more than Mrs. Fairchild, without
robbing poor Mrs. Fairchild of the little she has."
Could Mrs. Fairchild have believed her ears had she heard this? Could
she have believed that little Mrs. Bankhead, whose simple book-muslin
and plainly braided dark hair excited her nightly contempt, was held
in such respect and admiration by those who would not know her. And
Bankhead, whom her husband spoke of with such infinite contempt, as
having "nothing at all," "not salt to his porridge." And yet as Mrs.
Fairchild saw them courted and gay, she longed for some of their
porridge, "for they knew French."
And thus the season wore on in extreme weariness and deep
mortification. The Fairchilds made no headway at all. She made no
acquaintances at all at the opera, as she had fondly hoped. She even
regretted that her husband had refused their seats to the Bankheads.
Had he yielded them a favor may be they would have spoken to them.
Desperate, at last, she determined she would do something. She would
give a party. But who to ask?
Not old friends and acquaintance. That was not to be thought of. But
who else? She knew nobody.
"It was not necessary to know them," she told her husband. "She would
send her card and invitations to all those fine people, and they'd be
glad enough to come. The Bankheads, too, and the Hamiltons, she would
ask them."
"You are sure of them, at any rate," said her husband contemptuously.
"Poor devils! it's not often they get such a supper as they'll get
here."
But somehow the Hamiltons and Bankheads were not as hungry as Mr.
Fairchild supposed, for very polite regrets came in the course of a
few days, to Mrs. Fairchild's great wrath and mortification.
This was but the beginning, however. Refusals came pouring in thick
and fast from all quarters.
The lights were prepared, the music sounding, and some half dozen
ladies, whose husbands had occasionally a business transaction with
Mr. Fairchild, looked in on their way to a grand fashionable party
given the same evening by one of their own _clique_, and then
vanished, leaving Mrs. Fairchild with the mortified wish that they had
not come at all, to see the splendor of preparations and the beggary
of guests. Some few young men dropped in and took a look, and bowed
themselves out as soon as the Fairchilds gave them a chance; and so
ended this last and most desperate effort.
"My dear," said Mrs. Fairchild one day to her husband in perfect
desperation, "let us go to Europe."
"To Europe," he said, looking up in amazement.
"Yes," she replied, with energy. "That's what all these fine people
have done, and that's the way they know each other so well. All the
Americans are intimate in Paris, and then when they come back they are
all friends together."
Mr. Fairchild listened and pondered. He was as tired as his wife with
nothing to do; and moreover deeply mortified, though he said less
about it, at not being admitted among those with whom he had no tastes
or associations in common, and he consented.
The house was shut up and the Fairchilds were off.
* * * * *
"Who are those Fairchilds," asked somebody in Paris, "that one sees
every where, where money can gain admittance?"
"Oh, I don't know," replied Miss Rutherford. "They traveled down the
Rhine with us last summer, and were our perfect torment. We could not
shake them off."
"What sort of people are they?" was the next question.
"Ignorant past belief: but that would not so much matter if she were
not such a spiteful little creature. I declare I heard more gossip and
ill-natured stories from her about Americans in Paris than I ever
heard in all the rest of my life put together."
"And rich?"
"Yes, I suppose so--for they spent absurdly. They are just those
ignorant, vulgar people that one only meets in traveling, and that
make us blush for our country and countrymen. Such people should not
have passports."
"Fairchild," said Mrs. Castleton. "The name is familiar to me. Oh,
now I remember. But they can't be the same. The Fairchilds I knew were
people in humble circumstances. They lived in ---- street."
"Yes. I dare say they are the very people," replied Miss Rutherford.
"He has made money rapidly within a few years."
"But she was the best little creature I ever knew," persisted Mrs.
Castleton. "My baby was taken ill while we were in the country
boarding at the same house, and this Mrs. Fairchild came to me at
once, and helped me get a warm bath, and watched and nursed the child
with me as if it had been her own. I remember I was very grateful for
her excessive kindness and attention."
"Well, I dare say," replied Miss Rutherford. "But that was when she
was poor, and, as you say, humble, Mrs. Castleton. Very probably she
may have been kind-hearted originally. She does love her children
dearly. She has that merit; but now that she is rich, and wants to be
fine and fashionable, and don't know how to manage it, and can't
succeed, you never knew any body so spiteful and jealous as she is of
all those she feels beyond her reach."
"Pity," said Mrs. Castleton almost sorrowfully. "She was such a good
little creature. How prosperity spoils some people."
And so Mrs. Fairchild traveled and came home again.
They had been to Paris, and seen more things and places than they
could remember, and did not understand what they could remember, and
were afraid of telling what they had seen, lest they should
mispronounce names, whose spelling was beyond their most ambitious
flights.
They had gone to the ends of the earth to be in society at home. But
ignorant they went and ignorant they returned.
"Edward and Fanny shall know every thing," said Mrs. Fairchild, and
teachers without end were engaged for the young Fairchilds, who, to
their parents' great delight were not only chatting in "unknown
tongues," but becoming quite intimate with the little Ashfields and
other baby sprigs of nobility.
"Who is that pretty boy dancing with your Helen, Mrs. Bankhead?" asked
some one at a child's party.
"Young Fairchild," was the reply.
"Fairchild! What, a son of that overdressed little woman you used to
laugh at so at the opera?" said the other.
"The same," replied Mrs. Bankhead laughing.
"And here's an incipient flirtation between your girl and her boy,"
continued the other archly.
"Well, there's no leveler like Education. The true democrat after
all," she pursued.
"Certainly," replied Mrs. Bankhead. "Intelligence puts us all on a
footing. What other distinction can or should we have?"
"I doubt whether Mrs. Fairchild thinks so," replied her friend.
"Indeed you are mistaken," replied Mrs. Bankhead earnestly. "She would
not perhaps express it in those words: but her humble reverence for
education is quite touching. They are giving these children every
possible advantage, and in a few years, when they are grown up," she
continued, laughing, "We mothers will be very glad to admit the young
Fairchilds in society, even if they must bring the mother with them."
"I suppose so," said the other. "And old people are inoffensive even
if they are ignorant. Old age is in itself a claim to respect."
"True enough," returned Mrs. Bankhead; "and when you see them
engrossed and happy in the success of their children, you forgive them
a good deal. That is the reward of such people."
"They have fought through a good deal of mortification though to
attain it," rejoined the other. "I wonder whether the end is worth
it?"
"Ah! that's a question hard to settle," replied Mrs. Bankhead
seriously. "Society at large is certainly improved, but I doubt
whether individuals are the happier. No doubt the young Fairchilds
will be happier for their parents' rise in the world--but I should say
the 'transition state' had been any thing but a pleasant one to the
parents. The children will have the tastes as well as the means for
enjoyment; the one Mrs. Fairchild having found to be quite as
necessary as the other."
"This is the march of intellect, the progress of society, exemplified
in the poor Fairchilds," replied the other laughing. "Well, thank
Heaven my mission has not been to _rise_ in the world."
TWILIGHT.--TO MARY.
Oh! how I love this time of ev'n,
When day in tender twilight dies;
And the parting sun, as it falls from heaven,
Leaves all its beauty on the skies.
When all of rash and restless Nature,
Passion--impulse--meekly sleeps,
And loveliness, the soul's sweet teacher,
Seems like religion in its deeps.
And now is trembling through my senses
The melting music of the trees,
And from the near and rose-crowned fences
Comes the balm and fragrant breeze;
And from the bowers, not yet shrouded
In the coming gloom of night,
Breaks the bird-song, clear, unclouded.
In trembling tones of deep delight.
But not for this alone I prize
This witching time of ev'n,
The murmuring breeze, the blushing skies,
And day's last smile on heaven.
But thoughts of thee, and such as thou art.
That mingle with these sacred hours,
Give deeper pleasure to my heart
Than song of birds arid breath of flowers.
Then welcome the hour when the last smile of day
Just lingers at the portal of ev'n,
When so much of life's tumults are passing away,
And earth seems exalted to heaven. H. D. G.
THE SAGAMORE OF SACO.
A LEGEND OF MAINE.
BY ELIZABETH OAKES SMITH.
Land of the forest and the rock--
Of dark blue lake and mighty river--
Of mountains reared aloft to mock
The storms career, the lightning's shock--
My own green land forever. WHITTIER.