Originally published in Harper's New Monthly Magazine (Harper and Brothers) vol.19 #112 (Sep 1859).
Does it ever occur to the casual reader of newspaper advertisements, prospecting perhaps in the columns of the Herald in search of a cook, whereabouts may be situated that mysterious place to which many of them refer, in stating that they have "no objection to go a short distance in the country?"
You may notice that this clause, explanatory of the intentions of Bridget and Nora, becomes more and more frequent every season. More Bridgets and more Noras wave any hesitancy they may once have felt, and coyly wait to be invited to take up their abode in rural districts. But how does it chance that they may reasonably expect such advances, and give the signal of acceptance at the outset? Who wants the services of the army of cooks, nurses, and waiters that are marshaled daily in the aforementioned advertising mediums, or sit airing their accomplishments and their finery at the matinées of the Intelligence men and women, from week to week?
The able-bodied maid of all work, willing to milk and churn, to "rise with the lark and lie down with the lamb"—according to that ancient maxim of physical wealth which of late has fallen so completely into disuse—doubtless finds her appropriate sphere afar from the luxurious life of cities; but are the times so greatly "out of joint," that the wide kitchen, heretofore sacred to the domestic hospitality of Farmer Hickory, is now habitually invaded by the foreign crowd that inhabits the basement of brown stone mansions?
There are country seats, to be sure, scattered through the vicinity of the metropolis—the homes of old county families, who were noted in social and political circles long before the present generation arose, and who maintained, even then, something of the state brought by their ancestors from abroad, including the several departments of domestic service. But are they numerous enough to absorb the supply now apparently in market?
Clearly, then, there must be a new class of country residents increasing from year to year—a class of whom our friend Mr. Sparrowgrass is the representative man—inhabiting the white villas and brown Gothic cottages one whizzes past on any railway within forty miles of the metropolis, and demanding the services of this corps of domestic sappers and miners. The suburban population of our large cities is beginning to form a separate polity, and, from the very nature of things, must go on rapidly increasing, absorbing more and more of intelligence and wealth, and giving out in return new social influences. How, then, has the exodus arisen, and which way does it incline?
Drawing an illustration from the rural scenes among which we write—and looking back upon the march of improvement in the "contiguous counties"—we are forcibly reminded of the procedure of a flock of sheep, one of whom has found egress from a well-worn nibbling ground through a gap in the stone inclosure which surrounds it, and hastens "to fresh fields and pastures new." A second mounts the uncertain block of granite, cautiously surveys the landscape with an affectation of cool and sagacious inquiry, and suddenly proceeds upon so good an example; which is speedily followed with less and less caution by the crowd in the rear.
In other words, Mr. Jones, finding that he has become attached to the village of Highland-dale, where he has passed two summers at the boardinghouse of Mrs. Saveall, begins to look round, and wonder if it would not be quite as economical to rent a little place in the neighborhood to which he may remove his own comfortable mattress and mosquito net, and transplant his thriving nursery of olive plants, saving at once the discomforts of a flock bed and huge board bill, not to mention the uncomfortable misunderstandings between his wife and the landlady, of which he is the perpetual arbiter, growing out of the systematic oppressions which are exercised upon the juveniles and their appointed Milesian guardian.
Mrs. Jones—"worn to a shadow," as she informs her neighbor and confidante in Mrs. Saveall's east front room, by these intestine wars, and thinking with longing of the time when she could call her chamber her own and possess her soul in patience—is driven by the desperation of the moment to consent, though in calmer hours, amidst the comforts and conveniences of her own house in Thirty-first Street, with its gas and closets, its bath-room, hot and cold water, its proximity to the Kossuth Market, and the Church of St. Christopher, with dear Doctor Mendelsshon's poetical sermons, she might have hesitated.
Mr. Jones is a man of prompt business habits, or he never would have established the comfortable little business of Jones and Johnson, which gives him a net income of four thousand a year, with rapidly increasing prospects. He has secured a three-years' lease of the pretty little property he has discovered belonged to the widow of the former physician of Highland-dale; has put the out-buildings into excellent repair; disturbed the mossy deposits of the neglected "front yard;" trimming the old-fashioned May roses into modest proportions; uprooted the snow-balls and lilacs; ordering an invoice of the most high sounding standards to put in their places; and christening the spot thus remodeled "Rose Lawn," begins to talk to his friends Smith and Robinson of his "place in the country."
Of course the physician's widow, though receiving a rent beyond all expectations in the early days of Highland-dale, and which is absolutely necessary to the support of her five boys, laments over the hard necessity which has rebuilt her barns, changed a tumble-down wood-shed into a model chickery, thoroughly repaired her fences, papered and repainted her house; in short, nearly redoubled its marketable value. She bewails the uprooted lilacs, and puts no faith in Spires or Rosea Weigelias; "the doctor" never believed in these new-fangled things, and "the doctor's" opinion is still, and ever will be, law, with his adoring relict. Over the expenditure which Mr. Jones has lavished upon land and habitation—for he could not be otherwise than generous should he try—the widow shakes her head. "Money that comes easy goes easy," was also one of the lamented Galen's maxims, and with every load of guano or coat of paint her prospects of a punctual payment on quarter-day grew less encouraging.
But Mr. Jones meets his engagements to the moment, and Rose Lawn begins to attract the attention of passers-by, while the widow's soul is afflicted afresh by the comments of friends and neighbors on its improvement.
Mr. Evergreen "never would have known it." "Oh! no, indeed, she should think not." "Such an improvement," quoth Mr. Evergreen; "all these old roots taken out of the way, and such a beautiful screen of altheas between the house and potato patch!"
"Oh!"—and the tarleton cap of the late incumbent rises, crest-wise, at the open insult to her harassed feelings. "It was good enough for her and doctor; and had she known how things were going to go, no tenant should have entered those doors." Untruthful woman, when she knows that Jack's school bill and Ned's trowsers depend on the five hundred a year which no one else but Mr. Jones would have given her.
Meanwhile the invader grows in public estimation. He has taken one of the most commodious and expensive pews in the parish church; he has electrified the vestry by stating privately to one of the wardens that he should consider the decaying edifice improved by a course of treatment similar to that bestowed on the doctor's homestead, and proposing to meet one-fifth of the expense. He is known to put out of countenance the copper and small silver coin in the plate every Sunday by a ringing quarter or half-dollar, with a bank-bill on every special occasion. He pays the rector the delicate little attention of a new study chair, for the bracing Windsor in which his sermons have hitherto been concocted, and supplies his parlor with bouquets from the shrubs, vines, and bulbs that have been so offensive in their introduction.
Mrs. Jones sweeps the aisle with three flounces, and adds lustre to the east chancel pew with her bonnet from Madame Jervis, while her children are arrayed like the lilies of the field. Her mantilla is imitated by the two Miss Evergreens, who keep house for their bachelor brother, the lawyer. Mrs. Fairbairn, the mother of "seven under eleven," sends to borrow the aprons of the little girls, and Master Joe's fly jacket, for patterns. Mrs. Periwinkle, who is given to horticulture, in the absence of nursery duties, petitions for a slip of the Salvia splendens, or a root of Dielytra spectabilis; and one and all, charmed by the affability and liberality of the "new neighbors," retract their original comments on their dress, equipage, and furniture.
Mrs. Jones begins to understand the self-gratulation wrapped up in the well-known proverb, "Better be first in a village than second in Rome;" and is thus gradually consoled for household inconveniences, the loss of Broadway, the Kossuth Market, the grocer's cart, her favorite physician, dress-maker, and her pew at St. Christopher's.
Mrs. Johnson, the wife of her husband's partner, is invited out to pass the day, and comes fully prepared to sympathize with Mrs. Jones in her banishment. She has accompanied her in more than one omnibus ride down town, and passed up the mutual sixpences in payment. To return these attentions, she is met by the exile on the platform of the station-house, and conducted to the commodious vehicle Mr. Jones has recently driven up from the city and presented to his wife. Mrs. Johnson's countenance evinces admiring astonishment. She had no idea that "they kept a carriage." Mrs. Jones endeavors to suppress the internal satisfaction which arises from this source, and stepping in, as if it had been a part of her birth-right, issues the command for Patrick to drive home with a studied sang froid which, however, does not deceive Mrs. Johnson. The visitor is driven up the sweep, which has replaced the straight wagon road, by which the doctor's one-horse chaise found its way to the house or barn, and alights on a veranda, luxuriously supplied with lounging chairs and rustic sofas. The hall hat-rack is loaded with picturesque capalines, a burnous or so, and crowned by a broad-leaved garden hat.
The low ceilings of the doctor's late residence are so charmingly old-fashioned, and relieved by the extreme delicacy of the wall paper, with its fresh border; a work-table is drawn up to a recently casemented window, shaded by honeysuckle and clematis outside, and muslin draperies within; new books and magazines are scattered about on chairs and tables; vases of fresh flowers ornament the narrow mantles, now reduced from their original altitude to a reasonable and reachable distance; the chairs and tables have a style amidst these surroundings which they never possessed in the prosaic and stereotyped parlors of Thirty-first Street. Out of doors the sun lights up the foliage of the fine old elms and maples, and lies athwart the new-mown lawn in golden bands. The robins sing in the cherry-trees; the soft rustle of the ancient poplars that flank the gates accords to their full-throated song; and subtle odors steal up from the chalice of rose and lily with insensible, and therefore the more welcome perfume.
Mrs. Johnson, not being ill-natured or churlish, is lavish of her praises. "Picturesque!" "charming!" and "delightful!" are epithets poured out in profusion as Mrs. Jones marshals her guest from point to point of her household arrangements. The store-room, which has supplied the lack of Corwin and Co., and is fast becoming the pride of Mrs. Jones's heart; the dining-room, restored from the odors and dreariness of the doctor's office, with a large window cut to the west, and a Venetian door to the lawn in front. The broad chamber, in which the juvenile members of the family find ample accommodations; the guest-room, brightened by its blue and gilt cottage furniture, are all commended in turn. And Mrs. Johnson meets her husband in raptures, when he appears with her host in the afternoon, and declares that "it makes her sick to think of her narrow little shut-up house in town."
Mr. Johnson is appealed to, not less strongly, by the fine leg of lamb which the village butcher has supplied; the mint sauce, from the clump of that fragrant herb growing at the very door; the immense size of the Champion peas, and the early peach-blow potatoes; the rich yellow cream, which deluges the red and white Antwerps that supply the dessert, and makes his after-dinner coffee quite another affair from the beverage he is accustomed to in daily life.
Mr. Johnson is ready to accompany his host to the great kitchen garden which supplies these dainties, to pat the well-marked Devon, reposing under the shade of the apple-tree, in an adjoining meadow-lot, though wondering "why the mischief his friend Jones continues to reiterate that her back is as straight as a table." Mr. Johnson has an eye to a graceful figure, and no objection to a momentary glimpse of a neat ankle; but he is at fault, evidently, in the points of this style of beauty, so he is not unwilling to tear himself away from Lady Gay, and follow his host to the minor loveliness concealed in the somewhat careless appearance of her neighbors, Messrs. Bacon and Squeak, whose cottage residence does not display fastidious housekeeping.
Mr. Johnson falls into a reverie, with his boots on the top rail of the piazza, slowly puffing a mild Havana, handed him by his partner, the subject of which declares itself presently in the inquiry, if there are any more places to be had in the neighborhood.
"The fact of the business is"—puff, puff—"my wife"—puff—"hasn't got enough to occupy her, not being blessed with your style of checks on the future"—puff, puff, puff.
"Strikes me"—and here Mr. Johnson tapped the tip of his cigar against a convenient post of the veranda—"her health would be better in the country, and she might take to gardening, or riding horseback, or something to occupy her mind."
But there are no more jointure-houses to be found, and Mr. Jones, who has progressed in his education from gardening to rural architecture—a very natural transition—is burning to carry out some of his own private theories, and dabble in bricks and mortar, especially if some one else pays the bills, as he rather has tightened himself in his horticultural experiments. There is a most desirable building site a little out of the village, which Mr. Jones has had his eye on for some time, and, being naturally enthusiastic, its capabilities are set forth with all the zeal of a real estate-broker acting under the spur of a heavy commission.
Mrs. Johnson always must have her summer trip, which amounts to something in the course of the season, when the dresses indispensable for Saratoga and the Falls are taken into consideration, and the course of wine-suppers and billiards into which her husband is enticed, while she converses affably in the hop-room or on the colonnade. We will not be so harsh as to construe her polkas and moonlight promenades with strange young gentlemen as flirtations. Mr. Johnson draws out a memorandum-book from his pocket and sets down £500 opposite to "Summer Jaunt."
"There's your carriage and horses, you see," suggests Mr. Jones, looking over his shoulder.
Mrs. Johnson is musical, and therefore fond of the Opera; charitable, and so can not allow the balls for the benefit of the "Industrial Widows' Relief" and the "McDonough Foundation" to pass without the light of her countenance. Her husband adds "Opera and incidentals" to his list, and $300 to the account.
"Keep up a green-house and grapery, my boy, on that;" and Mr. Jones bestows an affectionate slap on the knee supporting these economical calculations; understanding that there is a private little building fund to Mrs. Johnson's credit deposited with the Illinois Life and Trust Company.
The carriage and conservatory win the day, and the lady's consent to the withdrawal of her paternal legacy. Mr. Jones is the happy negotiator for five acres of land belonging to Miss Clementina Evergreen, and "rise of property in the neighborhood" begins to replace the ordinary topics of conversation at the store and the post-office. Mrs. Jones has had her highest ambition gratified meantime by a recognition from the two or three old families within calling distance, who are ennuied in the midst of their ancestral grandeur, and though in town would not so much as cast a glance toward the circle in which our friends revolved, step down from the moss-grown pedestal of their reserve, for the sake of a new interest in their unvaried lives. Thus when the many-pinnacled and turreted mansion of the Johnsons rises on the slope of the adjoining hill—christened "The Evergreens" in compliment to its original owner—and with a passing glance at the hedges of spruce and fir, which Mr. Jones has had the satisfaction of superintending, his wife has the pleasure of chaperoning the new-comers among her recent acquaintances, who find Mrs. Johnson conversant (with the names and family histories at least) of the best watering-place people, and in the dearth of visiting places, make no further search into her pedigree.
The Johnsons are people of many friends: they entertain charmingly, and fill their house with visitors. Fresh inquiries for building sites arise, and presently we find "eligible lots at Highland-dale" advertised among the desirable locations countenanced by Homer Morgan and Anthony J. Bleecker, Esq. More brown turrets and cream-colored cottages dot the Evergreen estate. Miss Clementina has been wooed and won, on the strength of her heiress-ship, by a second cousin of the Johnsons, and returns from her wedding trip to plan an Italian villa that shall cast them all into the shade. Mr. Jones at this can no longer restrain his genius and his desires, but closets himself with an architect, and appears daily in the cars armed with a portentous roll of "drawings," which he studies in concert with his neighbors Messrs. Robinson and Brown, who are the last additions to Highlanddale society, and consequently look upon his attainments in all branches of rural æsthetics with wonder and admiration.
Thus it is that more and more parcels, addressed to the "package-office of the Harlem Railroad," find their way from Stewart's and Berrian's. This accounts for the influx to the cars of the gentlemanly-looking men you will recollect to have taken at first for the agents of a baggage-express on your last trip to your grandmother's residence in Westchester County. You noticed the social spirit that seemed to pervade this portion of the passengers, how they addressed each other by their Christian names, or abbreviations of their highly respectable patronymics—it was in May, if you recollect, and band-boxes were ranged with agricultural implements on the rack overhead, while baskets of petunias, verbenas, and budding plants in general brightened the cocoa-matting into a parterre of loveliness. Tired-looking women also—parcel-ladened—joined the group from time to time, and deposited themselves in the "reserved seats," held by the earliest arrivals for their benefit with a sigh of relief, before they proceeded to count the packages and parry the original witticisms, called out by their number from the little crowd around. How familiar they appeared to be with each other's occupations and engagements! how interested in the probable yield of mutual strawberry-beds, and the flourishing of standard roses! Then the gradual subsiding into domestic colloquies, so low that only a suggestive sentence reached your ear at first—on the disposal of certain funds intrusted to Madame in the morning, which had evidently proved insufficient for the demand upon them. You learned that the odd-shaped parcel contained three sauce-pans, an upright gridiron, a dust-brush, and mouse-trap, from Smith and Windles; the long one a hooped skirt, a piece of cotton sheeting, ten yards of flannel, a dozen bath towels, half a dozen cotton socks, a counterpane, and a pair of summer blankets from Stewart's. Bandbox No. 1. Shaker bonnets for the girls and Canada straw hats for Ben and Peter. No. 2. A crape dress hat. No. 3 (square and flat). A mantle from Brodie's. No. 4 (oblong and shallow). A set of embroideries from Richmond's.
By the return catechism you found that the Indian war-hatchet, which threatened to descend on your devoted head with every jolt of the car, was a tree-scraper—the brass surgical instrument under the gentleman's arm a newly-invented shrub-syringe—the carefully-balanced basket contained two settings of black Spanish eggs—the fowl unfamiliar to you—which he had exchanged with a friend living on Staten Island for two dozen Muscovies.
You grew interested in the family news of the day, in Doctor Parker's report on the probable result of the boil on Ben's leg, in the oddest encounter between madame and a former metropolitan acquaintance at Thompson's, in which they discovered that both of them had added three children to their respective families since their last meeting. You were glad to hear that the Smiths were seen at Mix's, buying a new carriage, and that the Browns were getting up in the world, and had taken a cottage at Newport for the summer. And finally, you discovered that the family name of your new acquaintance was Jones.
Detachments of gentlemen—shoppers—agricultural implements and bandboxes, left the cars from time to time at the various stations. At Highland-dale the seat before you was vacated. You had been warned of the approaching separation at the last cross-road signal, by seeing Mr. Jones commence an ingenious bestowal of his recent acquisition about the persons of himself and wife, gallantly shouldering all but the round and oblong boxes, which you were pleased to hear "were light," as their size was considerable. With arms thus filled to their utmost capacity, and still supporting the arch enemy of slugs beneath one, Mr. Jones remained standing, braced to support the shock of the cessation of speed—which passed in safety, he waved bandbox No. 3, supported by a little finger thrust beneath the cord, and gave the signal for advance with characteristic terseness and brevity, "Come on!"
In the excitement of the moment you surely have not forgotten how you took off your hat and stretched your head out of the window, forgetful of the warning regulations posted on the opposite door, to assure yourself that the party were landed safely. Incredible as it seemed—secure in long practice, and a certain dexterity thus acquired—every parcel remained poised in perfect equilibrium, and Mrs. Jones was assisted, by means of a disengaged elbow, to alight. An unostentatious family carriage, with two fine black horses, was drawn up amidst the crowd of vehicles, all neat and commodious, and flanking the driver were two fine half-grown boys disputing for the honor of holding the reins; while Patrick assisted with the tall package in matting, just issued by the freight car—labeled Henderson, Nursery-man, and suspicious of raspberry canes; that is to say, plants. A pretty child on the back seat held up a rosy mouth for kisses, rapturously given by both parents, especially the fond papa, who, depositing his parcels with beautifal unconsciousness of having performed to your unaccustomed eyes a feat worthy of Blitz and his dancing plates, took the little one on his knee and became oblivious of all besides.
You drew in your head with a sigh of relief as the train was put in motion, involuntarily remarking to the stranger on your left that "it was wonderful!" and were evidently taken for an inexperienced traveler remarking on the powers of the locomotive.
There was a social gathering at the Evergreens that night—you were not there, of course, but seated in the low, broad family room of the comfortable farm-house, where your paternal relative first saw the light, listening to stories of the time when the Boston stage passed in the rear of Grandfather Hickory's orchard every day, and your respective ancestors visited the metropolis once in four or five years by sloop. "Times have changed since then!" ejaculated your good grandmother with a nod and sigh. Reflecting on Highland-dale and its vicinity, where the inhabitants ride fifty miles a day for dinner and a bed, you agree with her.
But the parlors at the Evergreens presented a brilliant scene, though you were not there to add the lustre of your countenance. Finely proportioned, elegantly finished rooms in themselves—with carved furniture, good pictures, and wrought window draperies—they were decorated with the choicest exotics, and enshrined among them stood a simple vase filled with delicate wild flowers, and attracting far more attention than their aristocratic neighbors.
More than one group gathered 'round, passing a valuable microscope from hand to hand, or comparing them with the exquisite plates in the large folio volumes on the sofa-tables. There was a grave discussion carried on in an unknown tongue—unknown to the city guests in whose honor the little company had assembled; and who endeavored to look interested, and at home, at the mention of stipules, coty ledons, axillary buds—and charmed to hear that "the lilac was distinguished by the thyrsus or compact panicle of pyramidal shape, arising from the axis of inflorescence!"
The Joneses were there of course—Mrs. Jones freshened by bath and toilet, braced by a cup of strong coffee, and a well-fitting French corset—as well dressed and stylish as if still residing in Thirty-first Street, inasmuch as she continued to shop at the accustomed dépôts of feminine artillery, and did not think it necessary to neglect her personal appearance because she had lost sight of the steeple of St. Christopher. No, on the contrary, Mrs. Jones followed the good example of her own shrubberies, and flowered in the freshness of a spring array, in harmony with good taste and her ten years of maternity. As Mr. Jones had justly remarked, a bud was a very good thing in its way, but one could never gather the exact value of a choice rose until it expanded into full bloom.
Mr. Jones was the life of the company as usual, though attended by a certain impalpable redolence of whale-oil soap—a species of perfume not in favor at Phalon's, but in these days the basis of fragrance, as certain still less agreeable oils are used in the manufacture of bouquet de Caroline, or even millefleurs. His ardor of interest in his new acquisition would not suffer him to pass a night without a trial of its powers, hence this result; and Mrs. Jones, though sustaining her part respectably in an animated conversation with the strangers, listened with one ear toward her husband, and an inward foreboding, as she hears a neighbor detailing to him a process for manufacturing an antidote for the depredations of squash and melon bugs, based upon a half barrel of ancient mariners, known as "tautogs," to three gallons of rain-water, and allowed to stand in the sun until thoroughly distilled!
She is ready to burn the last number of the "Country Gentleman," in which this delectable compound is highly recommended, when she thinks of the bespattered piazzas, and plate-glass windows she has left for Nora's attention, and the general diffusion of this new odor, from the kitchen where it was concocted, to the dressing-room in which Mr. Jones had made a hasty change of garments.
Mr. White was not in his usual spirits, having discovered that four rows of the early peas, which he had taken especial pride in having higher than his neighbors by three-quarters of an inch, had been eaten close to the ground by a flock of pet geese, who had been suffered to stray about the lawn, and from thence had found their way to the vegetable garden. Young Broadstreet listens attentively to the conversation between Mr. White and Mr. Green, the well-known horticulturist, who is consoling his friend by relating a little accident that had just occurred to his large and elegant flower-garden, from the gambols of a favorite heifer, who had mistaken the inclosure for a clover field. Mr. Broadstreet is perfectly at home on the question of "our imports and exports," listens with his prominent eyes projected to their full extent, as the conversation turns upon the market value of small fruits, and is seized with a desire to sell out his interest in the silk business and invest in whole acres of Wilson's seedlings and New Marseilles blackberries; though he wavers, as grapes are advanced, and the famous cold grapery of Colonel Baker in the neighborhood is alluded to. He thinks the culture of Muscatel and Black Hamburg may be more to his taste, "more elevating in fact," as he remarks privately to Mr. Green as he solicits his opinion of the operation.
A friend has advised him to settle at New Marseilles, on account of superior social advantages; another has proposed the opposite extreme, the wonderfully thriving town of Busters, situated directly on the river. But some of the present company, entirely unprejudiced of course, remark with much spirit, that there is too much snobbishness on the North River side, and inevitable chills connected with the bathing privileges and gay society of New Marseilles. Highland-dale is, of course, the happy medium.
"Are you sure it is quite healthy?" inquires young Mrs. Broadstreet, anxiously; for being the inexperienced mother of a baby three months old, she is naturally anxious on the subject of "building up constitutions."
"You must take Mrs. Jones and her family as proofs," replies Mrs. Johnson, gayly, conscious that the least degree of intermittent is hanging about her this spring. But then, as every one knows, there is more or less of it every where, within forty miles of the city, and bad enough there of late in the new and fashionable locations—a calamity from which our country friends seem to derive great consolation.
Later in the evening, Mrs. Jones, who has taken a great interest in Mrs. Broadstreet, and thinks she would like to have her for a neighbor, tells her, in a low and tremulous voice—they have been talking of the younger lady's little one—of the loss of her little girl, two years before, and how kind all their friends were during her long and wearisome illness.
"I am not always as gay as you see me now," says Mrs. Jones, with tears starting unconsciously; "but for the sake of others, and for Mr. Jones especially, who is naturally social, I try not to give way to sadness. I know my little Mary has a far more blessed lot than her sister, who is left to the cares and weariness of life; but it is very hard to miss her. Every one was so kind; Mrs. Johnson was with me night and day. Mrs. White sat up with us several times, though her house was full of company; and when Mr. Jones was taken seriously ill afterward, Mr. White nursed him like a brother. I wish you could have seen my little Mary's funeral. It was so different from the cold, gloomy ceremony I went through with in town when my first baby died, years ago. Every one sent such beautiful flowers—all white—the house was filled with them, looking as pure and lovely as she did; such clusters of white buds, and the loveliest wreath of lily of the valley; the dear little creature looked like an angel ready for heaven, as she was; and all our friends sat around us; the parlors and piazzas were full; they really felt it too, for she had been a great pet in the neighborhood. They sang such a sweet hymn, and our rector, who is more like a father to us than a cold, wrapped-up clergyman, made such a beautiful address. I never understood before why we are told that 'their angels do always behold the face of Our Father in heaven;' but living here, one is made to realize the special Providence over birds and flowers and little children!"
Both ladies are very quiet when they emerge from the bay-window, in which they have been conversing, and Mrs. Broadstreet feels that she should like to come to Highland-dale, if only to live near Mrs. Jones.
For our friend has changed greatly in the last five years—from a trifling, anxious, unsatisfied life, she has emerged into a broader sphere of thought and feeling. She has had time for the real culture which found no place in the boarding-school education of her girlhood; for reading that is not light literature; for deep and quiet thought, not only on what she has read, but the past experiences of herself and others.
She has discovered, above all, that the poetical, emotional reverence with which the dim aisles and beautiful music of St. Christopher's inspired her, is not the true spiritual life that is to sustain her through the trials that come to the most fortunate lot, and be her passport through the pearly gates that have hidden her children from her. The ever-brightening pathway has been found—thanks to the personal friendship and guidance of the village pastor, who knows the hearts he ministers to, and how to reach the hidden depths of each! He does not hold himself aloof from the homes and pursuits of his people; nay, rather going before, he unfolds to them the deeper significance of Nature's secrets, the infinite wisdom and bounty of the Creator, and leads them from the dews and sunshine, which unfold some favorite and cherished blossom, to the development of character in its noble beauty, and from its fading and renewal, the immortal blossoming of a re-created nature.
Thus the phase of social life which we have drawn, not with careless though with light and rapid touch, has its own peculiar significance. Induced by the extravagant and crowded life of cities, it carries with it the culture and refinement there gained to be retained and heightened by constant intercourse with the centres of taste and intelligence, and combined with the purity and freshness of rural pursuits and surroundings. True hospitality—a virtue "that hath lain by till it is almost rusty"—from the ceremonious dinners and receptions of modern days, warm, social interests that recognize "my friend in my neighbor," and go with us on our way, welcoming our little ones into life, standing beside us with heartfelt congratulations at our bridals, and a sincere and sorrowful sympathy when we lay away our treasures from our sight, are some of the outgrowths of a rapidly increasing suburban population.
From this source, also, we may look in the future for the best intellectual, moral, and physical developments, apart from the false and effete refinement of the metropolis, and the dull sufficient-unto-the-day spirit of purely rural districts. Wealth will be brought to bear, with research and science, in all the problems of the agricultural age upon which we are entering, and which is destined to fulfill the promise that "the waste places shall be glad, and the desert blossom as the rose." Nor only so: the purity of the family and the state are here to be preserved; and those who are reared under such genial influences shall go forth into the world strong and vigorous in body and mind, to further the great interests of social and political life; true aristocrats in culture and attainment; truly democratic in the acknowledgment of a common brotherhood, and the higher law of the All-Father—truths taught by the Great Classic, whose authority is disputed and ignored in the whirl of business and pleasure.