"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."
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.