University of Virginia Library

16. CHAPTER XVI.
MRS. JOHN SEYMOUR'S PARTY, AND WHAT CAME
OF IT.

MRS. JOHN SEYMOUR'S party marked an era
in the annals of Springdale. Of this, you may
be sure, my dear reader, when you consider that it
was projected and arranged by Mrs. Lillie, in strict
counsel with her friend Mrs. Follingsbee, who had lived
in Paris, and been to balls at the Tuileries. Of course,
it was a tip-top New-York-Paris party, with all the
new, fashionable, unspeakable crinkles and wrinkles, all
the high, divine, spick and span new ways of doing
things; which, however, like the Eleusinian mysteries,
being in their very nature incommunicable except to
the elect, must be left to the imagination.

A French artiste, whom Mrs. Follingsbee patronized
as “my confectioner,” came in state to Springdale, with
a retinue of appendages and servants sufficient for a
circus; took formal possession of the Seymour mansion,
and became, for the time being, absolute dictator, as
was customary in the old Roman Republic in times
of emergency.

Mr. Follingsbee was forward, fussy, and advisory, in

his own peculiar free-and-easy fashion; and Mrs. Follingsbee
was instructive and patronizing to the very
last degree. Lillie had bewailed in her sympathizing
bosom John's unaccountable and most singular moral
Quixotism in regard to the wine question, and been
comforted by her appreciative discourse. Mrs. Follingsbee
had a sort of indefinite faith in French phrases for
mending all the broken places in life. A thing said
partly in French became at once in her view elucidated,
even though the words meant no more than the same
in English; so she consoled Lillie as follows: —

“Oh, ma chère! I understand perfectly: your husband
may be `un peu borné,' as they say in Paris, but
still `un homme très respectable,' (Mrs. Follingsbee here
scraped her throat emphatically, just as her French
maid did), — a sublime example of the virtues; and let
me tell you, darling, you are very fortunate to get such
a man. It is not often that a woman can get an establishment
like yours, and a good man into the bargain;
so, if the goodness is a little ennuyeuse, one must put
up with it. Then, again, people of old established
standing may do about what they like socially: their
position is made. People only say, `Well, that is their
way; the Seymours will do so and so.' Now, we have
to do twice as much of every thing to make our position,
as certain other people do. We might flood our
place with champagne and Burgundy, and get all the
young fellows drunk, as we generally do; and yet people
will call our parties `bourgeois,' and yours `recherché,'
if you give them nothing but tea and biscuit. Now,

there 's my Dick: he respects your husband; you can
see he does. In his odious slang way, he says he 's
`some,' and `a brick;' and he 's a little anxious to please
him, though he professes not to care for anybody. Now,
Dick has pretty sharp sense, after all, or he 'd never
have been just where he is.”

Our friend John, during these days preceding the
party, the party itself, and the clearing up after it,
enacted submissively that part of unconditional surrender
which the master of the house, if well trained,
generally acts on such occasions. He resembled the
prize ox, which is led forth adorned with garlands,
ribbons, and docility, to grace a triumphal procession.
He went where he was told, did as he was bid, marched
to the right, marched to the left, put on gloves and
cravat, and took them off, entirely submissive to the
word of his little general; and exhibited, in short, an
edifying spectacle of that pleasant domestic animal, a
tame husband. He had to make atonement for being
a reformer, and for endeavoring to live like a Christian,
by conceding to his wife all this latitude of indulgence;
and he meant to go through it like a man and a philosopher.
To be sure, in his eyes, it was all so much
unutterable bosh and nonsense; and bosh and nonsense
for which he was eventually to settle the bills: but he
armed himself with the patient reflection that all things
have their end in time, — that fireworks and Chinese
lanterns, bands of music and kid gloves, ruffs and puffs,
and pinkings and quillings, and all sorts of unspeakable
eatables with French names, would ere long float down

the stream of time, and leave their record only in a
few bad colds and days of indigestion, which also time
would mercifully cure.

So John steadied his soul with a view of that comfortable
future, when all this fuss should be over, and
the coast cleared for something better. Moreover,
John found this good result of his patience: that he
learned a little something in a Christian way by it.
Men of elevated principle and moral honesty often treat
themselves to such large slices of contempt and indignation,
in regard to the rogues of society, as to forget
a common brotherhood of pity. It is sometimes wholesome
for such men to be obliged to tolerate a scamp to
the extent of exchanging with him the ordinary benevolences
of social life.

John, in discharging the duty of a host to Dick Follingsbee,
found himself, after a while, looking on him
with pity, as a poor creature, like the rich fool in the
Gospels, without faith, or love, or prayer; spending life
as a moth does, — in vain attempts to burn himself up
in the candle, and knowing nothing better. In fact,
after a while, the stiff, tow-colored moustache, smart
stride, and flippant air of this poor little man struck
him somewhere in the region between a smile and a
tear; and his enforced hospitality began to wear a
tincture of real kindness. There is no less pathos in
moral than in physical imbecility.

It is an observable social phenomenon that, when
any family in a community makes an advance very
greatly ahead of its neighbors in style of living or

splendor of entertainments, the fact causes great
searchings of spirit in all the region round about, and
abundance of talk, wherein the thoughts of many hearts
are revealed.

Springdale was a country town, containing a choice
knot of the old, respectable, true-blue, Boston-aristocracy
families. Two or three of them had winter houses
in Beacon Street, and went there, after Christmas, to
enjoy the lectures, concerts, and select gayeties of the
modern Athens; others, like the Fergusons and Seymours,
were in intimate relationship with the same
circle.

Now, it is well known that the real old true-blue,
Simon-pure, Boston family is one whose claims to be
considered “the thing,” and the only thing, are somewhat
like the claim of apostolic succession in ancient
churches. It is easy to see why certain affluent, cultivated,
and eminently well-conducted people should be
considered “the thing” in their day and generation;
but why they should be considered as the “only thing”
is the point insoluble to human reason, and to be
received by faith alone; also, why certain other people,
equally affluent, cultivated, and well-conducted are not
“the thing” is one of the divine mysteries, about
which whoso observes Boston society will do well not
too curiously to exercise his reason.

These “true-blue” families, however, have claims to
respectability; which make them, on the whole, quite
a venerable and pleasurable feature of society in our
young, topsy-turvy, American community. Some of

them have family records extending clearly back to the
settlement of Massachusetts Bay; and the family estate
is still on grounds first cleared up by aboriginal settlers.
Being of a Puritan nobility, they have an ancestral
record, affording more legitimate subject of family self-esteem
than most other nobility. Their history runs
back to an ancestry of unworldly faith and prayer and
self-denial, of incorruptible public virtue, sturdy resistance
of evil, and pursuit of good.

There is also a literary aroma pervading their circles.
Dim suggestions of “The North American Review,” of
“The Dial,” of Cambridge, — a sort of vague “mielfleur”
of authorship and poetry, — is supposed to float
in the air around them; and it is generally understood
that in their homes exist tastes and appreciations denied
to less favored regions. Almost every one of them has
its great man, — its father, grandfather, cousin, or great
uncle, who wrote a book, or edited a review, or was a
president of the United States, or minister to England,
whose opinions are referred to by the family in any
discussion, as good Christians quote the Bible.

It is true that, in some few instances, the pleroma
of aristocratic dignity undergoes a sort of acetic fermentation,
and comes out in ungenial qualities. Now
and then, at a public watering-place, a man or woman
appears no otherwise distinguished than by a remarkable
talent for being disagreeable; and it is amusing to
find, on inquiry, that this repulsiveness of demeanor
is entirely on account of belonging to an ancient
family.

Such is the tendency of democracy to a general
mingling of elements, that this frigidity is deemed
necessary by these good souls to prevent the commonalty
from being attracted by them, and sticking to
them, as straws and bits of paper do to amber. But
more generally the “true-blue” old families are simple
and urbane in their manners; and their pretensions are,
as Miss Edgeworth says, presented rather intaglio than
in cameo. Of course, they most thoroughly believe in
themselves, but in a bland and genial way. “Noblesse
oblige” is with them a secret spring of gentle address
and social suavity. They prefer their own set and
their own ways, and are comfortably sure that what
they do not know is not worth knowing, and what they
have not been in the habit of doing is not worth
doing; but still they are indulgent of the existence
of human nature outside of their own circle.

The Seymours and the Fergusons belonged to this
sort of people; and, of course, Mr. John Seymour's
marriage afforded them opportunity for some wholesome
moral discipline. The Ferguson girls were frank,
social, magnanimous young women; of that class, to
whom the saying or doing of a rude or unhandsome
thing by any human being was an utter impossibility,
and whose cheeks would flush at the mere idea of
asserting personal superiority over any one. Nevertheless,
they trod the earth firmly, as girls who felt that
they were born to a certain position. Judge Ferguson
was a gentleman of the old school, devoted to past
ideas, fond of the English classics, and with small faith

in any literature later than Dr. Johnson. He confessed
to a toleration for Scott's novels, and had been detected
by his children both laughing and crying over the
stories of Charles Dickens; for the amiable weaknesses
of human nature still remain in the best regulated
mind. To women and children, the judge was benignity
itself, imitating the Grand Monarque, who bowed
even to a chambermaid. He believed in good, orderly,
respectable, old ways and entertainments, and had a
quiet horror of all that is loud or noisy or pretentious;
which sometimes made his social duties a trial to
him, as was the case in regard to the Seymour party.

The arrangements of the party, including the preparations
for an extensive illumination of the grounds,
and fireworks, were on so unusual a scale as to rouse
the whole community of Springdale to a fever of
excitement; of course, the Wilcoxes and the Lennoxes
were astonished and disgusted. When had it been
known that any of their set had done any thing of
the kind? How horribly out of taste! Just the result
of John Seymour's marrying into that class of society!
Mrs. Lennox was of opinion that she ought not to
go. She was of the determined and spicy order of
human beings, and often, like a certain French countess,
felt disposed to thank Heaven that she generally succeeded
in being rude when the occasion required. Mrs.
Lennox regarded “snubbing” in the light of a moral
duty devolving on people of condition, when the foundations
of things were in danger of being removed by
the inroads of the vulgar commonalty. On the present

occasion, Mrs. Lennox was of opinion that quiet, respectable
people, of good family, ought to ignore this kind of
proceeding, and not think of encouraging such things
by their presence.

Mrs. Wilcox generally shaped her course by Mrs.
Lennox: still she had promised Letitia Ferguson to
be gracious to the Seymours in their exigency, and
to call on the Follingsbees; so there was a confusion
all round. The young people of both families
declared that they were going, just to see the fun.
Bob Lennox, with the usual vivacity of Young America,
said he didn't “care a hang who set a ball rolling,
if only something was kept stirring.” The subject was
discussed when Mrs. Lennox and Mrs. Wilcox were
making a morning call upon the Fergusons.

“For my part,” said Mrs. Lennox, “I 'm principled on
this subject. Those Follingsbees are not proper people.
They are of just that vulgar, pushing class, against
which I feel it my duty to set my face like a flint; and
I 'm astonished that a man like John Seymour should
go into relations with them. You see it puts all his
friends in a most embarrassing position.”

“Dear Mrs. Lennox,” said Rose Ferguson, “indeed,
it is not Mr. Seymour's fault. These persons are invited
by his wife.”

“Well, what business has he to allow his wife to
invite them? A man should be master in his own
house.”

“But, my dear Mrs. Lennox,” said Mrs. Ferguson,
“such a pretty young creature, and just married! of

course it would be unhandsome not to allow her to
have her friends.”

“Certainly,” said Judge Ferguson, “a gentleman
cannot be rude to his wife's invited guests; for my
part, I think Seymour is putting the best face he can
on it; and we must all do what we can to help him.
We shall all attend the Seymour party.”

“Well,” said Mrs. Wilcox, “I think we shall go.
To be sure, it is not what I should like to do. I don't
approve of these Follingsbees. Mr. Wilcox was saying,
this morning, that his money was made by frauds
on the government, which ought to have put him in
the State Prison.”

“Now, I say,” said Mrs. Lennox, “such people ought
to be put down socially: I have no patience with
their airs. And that Mrs. Follingsbee, I have heard
that she was a milliner, or shop-girl, or some such
thing; and to see the airs she gives herself! One
would think it was the Empress Eugénie herself, come
to queen it over us in America. I can't help thinking
we ought to take a stand. I really do.”

“But, dear Mrs. Lennox, we are not obliged to
cultivate further relations with people, simply from
exchanging ordinary civilities with them on one evening,”
said Judge Ferguson.

“But, my dear sir, these pushing, vulgar, rich people
take advantage of every opening. Give them an inch,
and they will take an ell,” said Mrs Lennox. “Now, if I
go, they will be claiming acquaintance with me in Newport
next summer. Well, I shall cut them, — dead.”

“Trust you for that,” said Miss Letitia, laughing;
“indeed, Mrs. Lennox, I think you may go wherever
you please with perfect safety. People will never saddle
themselves on you longer than you want them; so
you might as well go to the party with the rest of us.”

“And besides, you know,” said Mrs. Wilcox, “all
our young people will go, whether we go or not. Your
Tom was at my house yesterday; and he is going with
my girls: they are all just as wild about it as they
can be, and say that it is the greatest fun that has been
heard of this summer.”

In fact, there was not a man, woman, or child, in a
circle of fifteen miles round, who could show shade or
color of an invitation, who was not out in full dress at
Mrs. John Seymour's party. People in a city may pick
and choose their entertainments, and she who gives a
party there may reckon on a falling off of about one-third,
for various other attractions; but in the country,
where there is nothing else stirring, one may be sure
that not one person able to stand on his feet will be
missing. A party in a good old sleepy, respectable
country place is a godsend. It is equal to an earthquake,
for suggesting materials of conversation; and in
so many ways does it awaken and vivify the community,
that one may doubt whether, after all, it is not a moral
benefaction, and the giver of it one to be ranked in the
noble army of martyrs.

Everybody went. Even Mrs. Lennox, when she had
sufficiently swallowed her moral principles, sent in all
haste to New York for an elegant spick and span new

dress from Madame de Tullegig's, expressly for the
occasion. Was she to be outshone by unprincipled
upstarts? Perish the thought! It was treason to the
cause of virtue, and the standing order of society. Of
course, the best thing to be done is to put certain people
down, if you can; but, if you cannot do that, the
next best thing is to outshine them in their own way.
It may be very naughty for them to be so dressy
and extravagant, and very absurd, improper, immoral,
unnecessary, and in bad taste; but still, if you cannot
help it, you may as well try to do the same, and do a
little more of it. Mrs. Lennox was in a feverish state
till all her trappings came from New York. The bill
was something stunning; but, then, it was voted by the
young people that she had never looked so splendidly
in her life; and she comforted herself with marking out
a certain sublime distance and reserve of manner to be
observed towards Mrs. Seymour and the Follingsbees.

The young people, however, came home delighted.
Tom, aged twenty-two, instructed his mother that Follingsbee
was a brick, and a real jolly fellow; and he
had accepted an invitation to go on a yachting cruise
with him the next month. Jane Lennox, moreover,
began besetting her mother to have certain details in
their house rearranged, with an eye to the Seymour
glorification.

“Now, Jane dear, that 's just the result of allowing
you to visit in this flash, vulgar genteel society,” said
the troubled mamma.

“Bless your heart, mamma, the world moves on, you

know; and we must move with it a little, or be left
behind. For my part, I 'm perfectly ashamed of the
way we let things go at our house. It really is not
respectable. Now, I like Mrs. Follingsbee, for my part:
she 's clever and amusing. It was fun to hear all about
the balls at the Tuileries, and the opera and things in
Paris. Mamma, when are we going to Paris?”

“Oh! I don't know, my dear; you must ask your
father. He is very unwilling to go abroad.”

“Papa is so slow and conservative in his notions!”
said the young lady. “For my part, I cannot see
what is the use of all this talk about the Follingsbees.
He is good-natured and funny; and, I am sure, I think
she 's a splendid woman: and, by the way, she gave me
the address of lots of places in New York where we
can get French things. Did you notice her lace? It
is superb; and she told me where lace just like it could
be bought one-third less than they sell at Stewart's.”

Thus we see how the starting-out of an old, respectable
family in any new ebullition of fancy and fashion
is like a dandelion going to seed. You have not only
the airy, fairy globe; but every feathery particle thereof
bears a germ which will cause similar feather bubbles
all over the country; and thus old, respectable grass-plots
become, in time, half dandelion. It is to be
observed that, in all questions of life and fashion, “the
world and the flesh,” to say nothing of the third partner
of that ancient firm, have us at decided advantage.
It is easy to see the flash of jewelry, the dazzle of color,
the rush and glitter of equipage, and to be dizzied by

the babble and gayety of fashionable life; while it is
not easy to see justice, patience, temperance, self-denial.
These are things belonging to the invisible and the eternal,
and to be seen with other eyes than those of the
body.

Then, again, there is no one thing in all the items
which go to make up fashionable extravagance, which,
taken separately and by itself, is not in some point of
view a good or pretty or desirable thing; and so, whenever
the forces of invisible morality begin an encounter
with the troops of fashion and folly, the world and the
flesh, as we have just said, generally have the best
of it.

It may be very shocking and dreadful to get money
by cheating and lying; but when the money thus got
is put into the forms of yachts, operas, pictures, statues,
and splendid entertainments, of which you are freely
offered a share if you will only cultivate the acquaintance
of a sharper, will you not then begin to say,
“Everybody is going, why not I? As to countenancing
Dives, why he is countenanced; and my holding out
does no good. What is the use of my sitting in my
corner and sulking? Nobody minds me.” Thus Dives
gains one after another to follow his chariot, and make
up his court.

Our friend John, simply by being a loving, indulgent
husband, had come into the position, in some measure,
of demoralizing the public conscience, of bringing in
luxury and extravagance, and countenancing people
who really ought not to be countenanced. He had a

sort of uneasy perception of this fact; yet, at each particular
step, he seemed to himself to be doing no more
than was right or reasonable. It was a fact that,
through all Springdale, people were beginning to be
uneasy and uncomfortable in houses that used to seem
to them nice enough, and ashamed of a style of dress
and entertainment and living that used to content them
perfectly, simply because of the changes of style and
living in the John-Seymour mansion.

Of old, the Seymour family had always been a
bulwark on the side of a temperate self-restraint and
reticence in worldly indulgence; of a kind that parents
find most useful to strengthen their hands when children
are urging them on to expenses beyond their means:
for they could say, “The Seymours are richer than we
are, and you see they don't change their carpets, nor get
new sofas, nor give extravagant parties; and they give
simple, reasonable, quiet entertainments, and do not go
into any modern follies.” So the Seymours kept up the
Fergusons, and the Fergusons the Seymours; and the
Wilcoxes and the Lennoxes encouraged each other in
a style of quiet, reasonable living, saving money for
charity, and time for reading and self-cultivation, and
by moderation and simplicity keeping up the courage
of less wealthy neighbors to hold their own with
them.

The John-Seymour party, therefore, was like the
bursting of a great dam, which floods a whole region.
There was not a family who had not some trouble with
the inundation, even where, like Rose and Letitia

Ferguson, they swept it out merrily, and thought no
more of it.

“It was all very pretty and pleasant, and I 'm glad it
went off so well,” said Rose Ferguson the next day;
“but I have not the smallest desire to repeat any thing
of the kind. We who live in the country, and have
such a world of beautiful things around us every day,
and so many charming engagements in riding, walking,
and rambling, and so much to do, cannot afford to
go into this sort of thing: we really have not time
for it.”

“That pretty creature,” said Mrs. Ferguson, speaking
of Lillie, “is really a charming object. I hope she will
settle down now to domestic life. She will soon find
better things to care for, I trust: a baby would be her
best teacher. I am sure I hope she will have one.”

“A baby is mamma's infallible recipe for strengthening
the character,” said Rose, laughing.

“Well, as the saying is, they bring love with
them,” said Mrs. Ferguson; “and love always brings
wisdom.”