“It represents a conversation on the deck of an ocean steamer, between a beautiful American girl, returning from Europe, and several Englishmen, who are grouped about her. One of these is saying: ‘Now, Miss ——, do tell us. You’ve travelled a great deal, and seen the world, where have you met with the most elegant, refined, and high-bred men and women?’ ‘Among your British aristocracy,’ replies the young lady, frankly. Her response is greeted with a flutter of delight by the group, and their spokesman puts another question: ‘Now tell us, on the other hand,’ he says, ‘where you have met with the greatest ill-breeding and vulgarity.’ The answer comes as promptly as before: ‘Among your British aristocracy.’ That,” proceeded Decourcy, after waiting for Margaret’s ready tribute of appreciation, “according to my own small experience, states the case exactly, and, with certain limitations, the same thing is true of the aristocracy of every country. A low-born ignoramus could never be the finished snob that a man of some enlightenment may be; he wouldn’t know how. But confess, Margaret,—hot little rebel as you are!—have you never encountered the elements of snobbishness among your own people?”
“Yes; but I always supposed it came from ignorance and was greatly due to the fact that, since the war, our people have had so little opportunity of seeing the world, and have become insulated and prejudiced in consequence.”
“There is something in that; but it was always so, I fancy, more or less. We are by nature and habit a self-opinionated race, with certain honorable exceptions, of course. But this I will say—by way of a little private swagger between ourselves—that I think we are a courteous people, indeed the most courteous I have known, with more inherent good-feeling for others. That ought to comfort you.”
“Yes,” said Margaret, rather wistfully; “but there are so many other things. Our people are so indolent, it seems to me—at least since the war.”
“You always make me laugh, Daisy, when you introduce that little phrase, ‘since the war.’ You seem to find in it a satisfactory excuse for all the delinquencies of your beloved people. But the South, my sweet cousin, has never been a Utopia, any more than other lands. Wheat and tares must grow together everywhere.”
“I am glad you call them my beloved people,” said Margaret, after a little silence. “At home they do not think me very patriotic.”
“Whom do you mean by ‘they’?”
“I was thinking of Charley Somers——”
“Oh, by-the-way, I meant to ask about that pretty young fellow,” said Decourcy. “I used to make him very angry by telling him he ought to induce Bassett to take a newspaper, and suggesting that the name of the town should be changed to Cosmopolis. I am afraid Charley never loved me. I shudder still at the remembrance of the scowls he would cast upon me whenever I went near you. How is he?”
“Very well,” said Margaret; “not changed at all.”