Kitabı oku: «Graham's Magazine Vol XXXIII No. 1 July 1848», sayfa 8

STUDY. (Extract.)

 
Life, like the sea, hath yet a few green isles
Amid the waste of waters. If the gale
Has tossed your bark, and many weary miles
Stretch yet before you, furl the battered sail,
Fling out the anchor, and with rapture hail
The pleasant prospect – storms will come too soon.
They are but suicides, at best, who fail
To seize when'er they can Joy's fleeting boon —
Fools, who exclaim "'tis night," yet always shun the noon.
 
 
Live not as though you had been born for naught.
Save like the brutes to perish. What do they
But crop the grass and die? Ye have been taught
A nobler lesson – that within the clay,
Upon the minds high altar, burns a ray
Flashed from Divinity – and shall it shine
Fitful and feebly? Shall it die away,
Because, forsooth, no priest is at the shrine?
Go ye with learning's lamp and tend the fire divine.
 
 
Pore o'er the classic page, and turn again
The leaf of History – ye will not heed
The noisy revel and the shouts of men,
The jester and the mime, for ye can feed,
Deep, deep, on these; and if your bosoms bleed,
At tales of treachery and death they tell,
The land that gave you birth will never need
Tarpeian rock, that rock from which there fell
He who loved Rome and Rome's, yet loved himself too well.
 
 
And she, the traitress, who beneath the weight
Of Sabine shields and bracelets basely sank,
Stifled and dying, at the city-gate,
Lies buried there – and now the long weeds, dank
With baneful dews, bend o'er her, and the rank
Entangled grass, the timid lizard's home,
Covers the sepulchre – the wild flower shrank
To plant its roots in that polluted loam —
Pity that such a tomb should look o'er ruined Rome.
 
 
Rome! lovely in her ruins! Can they claim
Common humanity who never feel
The pulse beat higher at the very name,
The brain grow wild, and the rapt senses reel,
Drunken with happiness? O'er us should steal
Feelings too big for utt'rance – I should prize
Such joy above all earthly wealth and weal,
Nor barter it for love – when Beauty dies
Love spreads his silken wings. The happy are the wise.
 

HENRY S. HAGERT.

THE FANE-BUILDER

BY EMMA C. EMBURY

 
A poet's wreath shall be thine only crown,
A poet's memory thy most far renown. Lament of Tasso.
 

In the olden time of the world there stood on the ocean-border a large and flourishing city, whose winged ships brought daily the costly merchandise of all nations to its overflowing store-houses. It was a place of busy, bustling, turbulent life. Men were struggling fiercely for wealth, and rank, and lofty name. The dawn of day saw them striving each for his own separate and selfish schemes; the stars of midnight looked down in mild rebuke upon the protracted labor of men who gave themselves no time to gaze upon the quiet heavens. One only of all this busy crowd mingled not in their toil – one only idler sauntered carelessly along the thronged mart, or wandered listlessly by the seashore; Adonais alone scorned to bind himself by fetters which he could not fling aside at his own wild will. Those who loved the stripling grieved to see him waste the spring-time of life in thus aimlessly loitering by the way-side; while the old men and sages would fain have taken from him his ill-used freedom, and shut him up in the prison-house where they bestowed their madmen, lest his example should corrupt the youth of the city.

But for all this Adonais cared little. In vain they showed him the craggy path which traversed the hill of Fame; in vain they set him in the foul and miry roads which led to the temple of Mammon. He bowed before their solemn wisdom, but there was a lurking mischief in his glance as he pointed to his slender limbs, and feigned a shudder of disgust at the very sight of these rugged and distasteful ways. So at last he was suffered to wend his own idle course, and save that careful sires sometimes held him up as a warning to their children, his fellow-townsmen almost forgot his existence.

Years passed on, and then a beautiful and stately Fane began to rise in the very heart of the great city. Slowly it rose, and for a while they who toiled so intently at their daily business, marked not the white and polished stones which were so gradually and silently piled together in their midst. It grew, that noble temple, as if by magic. Every morning dawn shed its rose-tints upon another snowy marble which had been fixed in its appointed place beneath the light of the quiet stars. Men wondered somewhat, but they had scarce time to observe, and none to inquire. So the superb fabric had nearly reached its summit ere they heard, with unbelieving ears, that the builder of this noble fane, was none other than Adonais, the idler.

Few gave credence to the tale, for whence could he, the vagrant, and the dreamer, have drawn those precious marbles, encrusted as they were with sculpture still more precious, and written over with characters as inscrutable as they were immortal? Some set themselves to watch for the Fane-builder, but their eyes were heavy, and at the magic hour when the artist took up his labors, their senses were fast locked in slumber. Yet silently, even as the temple of the mighty Solomon, in which was never heard the sound of the workman's tool, so rose that mystic fane. Not until it stood in grand relief against the clear blue sky; not until its lofty dome pierced the clouds even a mountain-top; not until its polished walls were fashioned within and without, to surpassing beauty, did men learn the truth, and behold in the despised Adonais, the wonder-working Fane-builder. In his wanderings the dreamer had lighted on the entrance to that exhaustless mine, whence men of like soul have drawn their riches for all time. The hidden treasures of poesy had been given to his grasp, and he had built a temple which should long outlast the sand-heaps which the worshipers of Mammon had gathered around them.

But even then, when pilgrims came from afar to gaze upon the noble fane, the men of his own kindred and people stood aloof. They cared not for this adornment of their birth-place – they valued not the treasures that had there been gathered together. Only the few who entered the vestibule, and saw the sparkle of jewels which decked the inner shrine, or they to whom the pilgrims recounted the priceless value of these gems in other lands – only they began to look with something like pride upon the dreamer Adonais.

But not without purpose had the Fane-builder reared this magnificent structure. Within those costly walls was a veiled and jeweled sanctuary. There had he enshrined an idol – the image of a bright divinity which he alone might worship. Willingly and freely did he admit the pilgrim and the wayfarer to the outer courts of his temple; gladly did he offer them refreshing draughts from the fountain of living water which gushed up in its midst; but never did he suffer them to enter that "Holy of holies;" never did their eyes rest on that enshrined idol, in whose honor all these treasures were gathered together.

In progress of time, when Adonais had lavished all his wealth upon his temple, and when with the toil of gathering and shaping out her treasures, his strength had well-nigh failed him, there came a troop of revilers and slanderers – men of evil tongue, who swore that the Fane-builder was no better than a midnight robber, and had despoiled other temples of all that adorned his own. The tale was as false and foul as they who coined it; but when they pointed to many pigmy fanes which now began to be reared about the city, and when men saw that they were built of like marbles as those which glittered in the temple of Adonais, they paused not to mark that the fairest stones in these new structures were but the imperfect sculptures which the true artist had scorned to employ, or perhaps the chippings of some rare gem which in his affluence he could fling aside. So the tale was hearkened unto and believed. They whose dim perceptions had been bewildered by this new uncoined and uncoinable wealth, were glad to think that it had belonged to some far off time, or some distant region. The envious, the sordid, the cold, all listened well-pleased to the base slander; and they who had cared little for his glory made themselves strangely busy in spreading the story of his shame.

Patiently and unweariedly had the dreamer labored at his pleasant task, while the temple was gradually growing up toward the heavens; skillfully had he polished the rich marbles, and graven upon them the ineffaceable characters of truth. But the jeweled adornments of the inner shrine had cost him more than all his other toil, for with his very heart's blood had he purchased those costly gems that sparkled on his soul's idol. Now wearied and worn with by-gone suffering he had no strength to stand forth and defy his revilers. Proudly and silently he withdrew from the world, and entered into his own beautiful fane. Presently men beheld that a heavy stone had been piled against the door of the inner sanctuary, and upon its polished surface was inscribed these words: "To Time the Avenger!"

From that day no one ever again beheld the dreamer. Pilgrims came as before, and rested within the vestibule, and drank of the springing fountain, but they no longer saw the dim outline of the veiled goddess in the distant shrine, only the white and ghastly glitter of that threatening stone, which seemed like the portal of a tomb, met their eyes.

Thus years passed on, and men had almost forgotten the name of him who had wasted himself in such fruitless toil. At length there came one from a country far beyond the seas, who had set forth to explore the wonders of all lands. He lacked the pious reverence of the pilgrims, but he also lacked the cold indifference of those who dwelt within the shadow of the temple. He entered the mystic fane, he gazed with unsated eye upon the treasures it contained, and his soul sought for greater beauty. With daring hand he and his companions thrust aside the marble portal which guarded the sanctuary. At first they shrunk back, dazzled and awe-stricken as the blaze of rich light met their unhallowed gaze. Again they went forward, and then what saw they? Surrounded by the sheen of jewels – glowing in the gorgeous light of the diamond, the chrysolite, the beryl, the ruby, they found an image fashioned but of common clay, while extended at its feet lay the skeleton of the Fane-builder.

Worn with toil, and pain, and disappointment, he had perished at the feet of his idol. It may be that the scorn of the world had opened his eyes to behold of what mean materials was shapen the divinity he had so honored. It may be that the glitter of the gems he had heaped around it had perpetuated the delusion which had first charmed him, and he had thus been saved the last, worst pang of wasted idolatry. It matters not. He died – as all such men must die – in sorrow and in loneliness.

But the fane he has reared is as indestructible as the soul of him who lifted its lofty summit to the skies. "Time, the Avenger," has redeemed the builder's fame; and even the men of his own nation now believe that a prophet and a seer once dwelt among them.

When that great city shall have shared the fortunes of the Babylons and Ninevahs of olden time, that snow-white fane, written all over with characters of truth, and graven with images of beauty, will yet endure; and men of new times and new states shall learn lessons of holier and loftier existence from a pilgrimage to that glorious temple, built by spirit-toil, and consecrated by spirit-worship and spirit-suffering.

DREAM-MUSIC; OR, THE SPIRIT-FLUTE

A BALLAD

BY FRANCES S. OSGOOD

 
There – Pearl of Beauty! lightly press,
With yielding form, the yielding sand;
And while you lift the rosy shells,
Within your dear and dainty hand,
 
 
Or toss them to the heedless waves.
That reck not how your treasures shine,
As oft you waste on careless hearts
Your fancies, touched with light divine,
 
 
I'll sing a lay – more wild than gay —
The story of a magic flute;
And as I sing, the waves shall play
An ordered tune, the song to suit.
 
 
In silence flowed our grand old Rhine;
For on his breast a picture burned,
The loveliest of all scenes that shine
Where'er his glorious course has turned.
 
 
That radiant morn the peasants saw
A wondrous vision rise in light,
They gazed, with blended joy and awe —
A castle crowned the beetling height!
 
 
Far up amid the amber mist,
That softly wreathes each mountain-spire,
The sky its clustered columns kissed,
And touched their snow with golden fire;
 
 
The vapor parts – against the skies,
In delicate tracery on the blue,
Those graceful turrets lightly rise,
As if to music there they grew!
 
 
And issuing from its portal fair,
A youth descends the dizzy steps;
The sunrise gilds his waving hair,
From rock to rock he lightly leaps —
 
 
He comes – the radiant, angel-boy!
He moves with more than human grace;
His eyes are filled with earnest joy,
And Heaven is in his beauteous face.
 
 
And whether bred the stars among,
Or in that luminous palace born,
Around his airy footsteps hung
The light of an immortal morn.
 
 
From steep to steep he fearless springs,
And now he glides the throng amid.
So light, as if still played the wings
That 'neath his tunic sure are hid!
 
 
A fairy flute is in his hand —
He parts his bright, disordered hair,
And smiles upon the wondering band,
A strange, sweet smile, with tranquil air.
 
 
Anon, his blue, celestial eyes
He bent upon a youthful maid,
Whose looks met his in still surprise,
The while a low, glad tune he played —
 
 
Her heart beat wildly – in her face
The lovely rose-light went and came;
She clasped her hands with timid grace,
In mute appeal, in joy and shame!
 
 
Then slow he turned – more wildly breathed
The pleading flute, and by the sound
Through all the throng her steps she wreathed,
As if a chain were o'er her wound.
 
 
All mute and still the group remained,
And watched the charm, with lips apart,
While in those linkéd notes enchained,
The girl was led, with listening heart: —
 
 
The youth ascends the rocks again.
And in his steps the maiden stole,
While softer, holier grew the strain,
Till rapture thrilled her yearning soul!
 
 
And fainter fell that fairy tune;
Its low, melodious cadence wound,
Most like a rippling rill at noon,
Through delicate lights and shades of sound;
 
 
And with the music, gliding slow,
Far up the steep, their garments gleam;
Now through the palace gate they go;
And now – it vanished like a dream!
 
 
Still frowns above thy waves, oh Rhine!
The mountain's wild terrific height,
But where has fled the work divine,
That lent its brow a halo-light?
 
 
Ah! springing arch and pillar pale
Had melted in the azure air!
And she – the darling of the dale —
She too had gone – but how – and where?
 
 
Long years rolled by – and lo! one morn,
Again o'er regal Rhine it came,
That picture from the dream-land borne,
That palace built of frost and flame.
 
 
Behold! within its portal gleams
A heavenly shape – oh! rapturous sight!
For lovely as the light of dreams
She glides adown the mountain height!
 
 
She comes! the loved, the long-lost maid!
And in her hand the charméd flute;
But ere its mystic tune was played
She spake – the peasants listened mute —
 
 
She told how in that instrument
Was chained a world of wingéd dreams;
And how the notes that from it went
Revealed them as with lightning gleams;
 
 
And how its music's magic braid
O'er the unwary heart it threw,
Till he or she whose dream it played
Was forced to follow where it drew.
 
 
She told how on that marvelous day
Within its changing tune she heard
A forest-fountain's plaintive play,
A silver trill from far-off bird;
 
 
And how the sweet tones, in her heart,
Had changed to promises as sweet,
That if she dared with them depart,
Each lovely hope its heaven should meet.
 
 
And then she played a joyous lay,
And to her side a fair child springs,
And wildly cries – "Oh! where are they?
Those singing-birds, with diamond wings?"
 
 
Anon a loftier strain is heard,
A princely youth beholds his dream;
And by the thrilling cadence stirred,
Would follow where its wonders gleam.
 
 
Still played the maid – and from the throng —
Receding slow – the music drew
A choice and lovely band along —
The brave – the beautiful – the true!
 
 
The sordid – worldly – cold – remained,
To watch that radiant troop ascend;
To hear the fading fairy strain;
To see with Heaven the vision blend!
 
 
And ne'er again, o'er glorious Rhine,
That sculptured dream rose calm and mute;
Ah! would that now once more 't would shine,
And I could play the fairy flute!
 
 
I'd play, Marié, the dream I see,
Deep in those changeful eyes of thine,
And thou perforce should'st follow me,
Up – up where life is all divine!
 

RISING IN THE WORLD

BY P. E. F., AUTHOR OF "AARON'S ROD," "TELLING SECRETS," ETC

"This is the house that Jack built."

Whether it was cotton or tallow that laid the foundations of Mr. Fairchild's fortunes we forget – for people have no right now-a-days to such accurate memories – but it was long ago, when Mrs. Fairchild was contented and humble, and Mr. Fairchild happy in the full stretch of his abilities to make the two ends meet – days which had long passed away. A sudden turn of fortune's wheel had placed them on new ground. Mr. Fairchild toiled, and strained, and struggled to follow up fortune's favors, and was successful. The springs of life had well-nigh been consumed in the eager and exhausting contest; and now, breathless and worn, he paused to be happy. One half of life he had thus devoted to the one object, meaning when that object was obtained to enjoy the other half, supposing that happiness, like every thing else, was to be bought.

Mrs. Fairchild's ideas had jumped with her husband's fortunes. Once she only wanted additional pantries and a new carpet for her front parlor, to be perfectly happy. Now, a grand house in a grand avenue was indispensable. Once, she only wished to be a little finer than Mrs. Simpkins; now, she ardently desired to forget she ever knew Mrs. Simpkins; and what was harder, to make Mrs. Simpkins forget she had ever known her. In short, Mrs. Fairchild had grown fine, and meant to be fashionable. And why not? Her house was as big as any body's. Her husband gave her carte blanche for furniture, and the mirrors, and gilding, and candelabras, were enough to put your eyes out.

She was very busy, and talked very grand to the shopmen, who were very obsequious, and altogether was very happy.

"I don't know what to do with this room, or how to furnish it," she said to her husband one day, as they were going through the house. There are the two drawing-rooms, and the dining-room – but this fourth room seems of no use – I would make a keeping-room of it, but that it has only that one large window that looks back – and I like a cheerful look-out where I sit – why did you build it so?"

"I don't know," he replied, "it's just like Ashfield's house next door, and so I supposed it must be right, and I told the workmen to follow the same plan as his."

"Ashfield's!" said Mrs. Fairchild, looking up with a new idea, "I wonder what use they put it to."

"A library, I believe. I think the head carpenter told me so."

"A library! Well, then, let's us have a library," she said. "Book-cases would fill those walls very handsomely."

He looked at her for a moment, and said,

"But the books?"

"Oh, we can get those," she replied. "I'll go this very morning to Metcalf about the book-cases."

So forthwith she ordered the carriage, and drove to the cabinet-maker's.

"Mr. Metcalf," she said with her grandest air, (for as at present she had to confine her grandeur to her trades-people, she gave them full measure, for which, however, they charged her full price,) "I want new book-cases for my library – I want your handsomest and most expensive kind."

The man bowed civilly, and asked if she preferred the Gothic or Egyptian pattern.

Gothic or Egyptian! Mrs. Fairchild was nonplused. What did he mean by Gothic and Egyptian? She would have given the world to ask, but was ashamed.

"I have not made up my mind," she replied, after some hesitation, (her Egyptian ideas being drawn from the Bible, were not of the latest date, and so she thought of Pharaoh) and added, "but Gothic, I believe" – for Gothic at least was untrenched ground, and she had no prejudices of any kind to combat there – "which, however, are the most fashionable?" she continued.

"Why I make as many of the one as the other," he replied. "Mr. Ashfield's are Egyptian, Mr. Campden's Gothic."

Now the Ashfields were her grand people. She did not know them, but she meant to. They lived next door, and she thought nothing would be easier. They were not only rich, but fashionable. He was a man of talent and information, (but that the Fairchilds knew nothing about,) head of half the literary institutions, a person of weight and influence in all circles. She was very pretty and very elegant – dressing beautifully, and looking very animated and happy; and Mrs. Fairchild often gazed at her as she drove from the door, (for the houses joined,) and made up her mind to be very intimate as soon as she was "all fixed."

"The Ashfields have Egyptian," she repeated, and Pharaoh faded into insignificance before such grand authority – and so she ordered Egyptian too.

"Not there," said Mrs. Fairchild, "you need not measure there," as the cabinet-maker was taking the dimensions of her rooms. "I shall have a looking-glass there."

"A mirror in a library!" said the man of rule and inches, with a tone of surprise that made Mrs. Fairchild color. "Did you wish a mirror here, ma'am," he added, more respectfully.

"No, no," she replied quickly, "go on" – for she felt at once that he had seen the inside of more libraries than she had.

Her ideas received another illumination from the upholsterer, as she was looking at blue satin for a curtain to the one large window which opened on a conservatory, who said,

"Oh, it's for a library window; then cloth, I presume, madam, is the article you wish."

"Cloth!" she repeated, looking at him.

"Yes," he replied; "we always furnish libraries with cloth. Heavy, rich materials is considered more suitable for such a purpose than silk."

Mrs. Fairchild was schooled again. However, Mr. Ashfield was again the model.

And now the curtains were up, and the cases home, and all but the books there, which being somewhat essential to a library, Mrs. Fairchild said to her husband,

"My dear, you must buy some books. I want to fill these cases and get this room finished."

"I will," he replied. "There's an auction to-night. I'll buy a lot."

"An auction," she said, hesitatingly. "Is that the best place? I don't think the bindings will be apt to be handsome of auction books."

"I can have them rebound," he answered.

"But you cannot tell whether they will fit these shelves," she continued, anxiously. "I think you had better take the measure of the shelves, and go to some book-store, and then you can choose them accordingly."

"I see Ashfield very often at book auctions," he persisted, to which she innocently replied,

"Oh, yes – but he knows what he is buying, we don't;" to which unanswerable argument Mr. Fairchild had nothing to say. And so they drove to a great book importers, and ordered the finest books and bindings that would suit their measurements.

And now they were at last, as Mrs. Fairchild expressed it, "all fixed." Mr. Fairchild had paid and dismissed the last workman – she had home every article she could think of – and now they were to sit down and enjoy.

The succeeding weeks passed in perfect quiet – and, it must be confessed, profound ennui.

"I wish people would begin to call," said Mrs. Fairchild, with an impatient yawn. "I wonder when they will."

"There seems to be visiting enough in the street," said Mr. Fairchild, as he looked out at the window. "There seems no end of Ashfield's company."

"I wish some of them would call here," she replied sorrowfully.

"We are not fine enough for them, I suppose," he answered, half angrily.

"Not fine enough!" she ejaculated with indignant surprise. "We not fine enough! I am sure this is the finest house in the Avenue. And I don't believe there is such furniture in town."

Mr. Fairchild made no reply, but walked the floor impatiently.

"Do you know Mr. Ashfield?" she presently ask.

"Yes," he replied; "I meet him on 'change constantly."

"I wonder, then, why she does not call," she said, indignantly. "It's very rude in her, I am sure. We are the last comers."

And the weeks went on, and Mr. Fairchild without business, and Mrs. Fairchild without gossip, had a very quiet, dull time of it in their fine house.

"I wish somebody would call," had been repeated again and again in every note of ennui, beginning in impatience and ending in despair.

Mr. Fairchild grew angry. His pride was hurt. He looked upon himself as especially wronged by his neighbor Ashfield. The people opposite, too – "who were they, that the Ashfields were so intimate with them? The Hamiltons! Why he could buy them over and over again! Hamilton's income was nothing."

At last Mrs. Fairchild took a desperate resolution, "Why should not we call first? We'll never get acquainted in this way," which declaration Mr. Fairchild could not deny. And so she dressed one morning in her finest and drove round with a pack of cards.

Somehow she found every body "out." But that was not much, for, to tell the truth, her heart did beat a little at the idea of entering strange drawing-rooms and introducing herself, and she would be sure to be at home when they returned her calls; and that would be less embarrassing, and suit her views quite as well.

In the course of a few days cards were left in return.

"But, Lawrence, I told you to say I was at home." said Mrs. Fairchild, impatiently, as the servant handed her half a dozen cards.

"I did, ma'am," he replied.

"You did," she said, "then how is this?"

"I don't know, ma'am," he replied, "but the foot-man gave me the cards and said all was right."

Mrs. Fairchild flushed and looked disconcerted.

Before a fortnight had elapsed she called again; but this time her cards remained unnoticed.

"Who on earth is this Mrs. Fairchild?" said Mrs. Leslie Herbert to Mrs. Ashfield, "who is forever leaving her cards."

"The people who built next to us," replied Mrs. Ashfield. "I don't know who they are."

"What an odd idea," pursued the other, "to be calling once a week in this way. I left my card after the first visit; but if the little woman means to call every other day in this way, I shall not call again."

And so Mrs. Fairchild was dismissed from the minds of her new neighbors, while she sat in anxious wonderment at their not calling again.

Though Mr. Fairchild was no longer in business, yet he had property to 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.