Poor Mrs. Finley, until every luxury that money could buy, felt deeply mortified at the absence of that which money could not buy. There is a certain aristocracy in our city that is most carefully guarded. It is said that the barriers here may be as easily passed as the fences that enclose our fields, so mildly contrasting with the thorny hedges of the aristocracy, of the parent land. But it is not so. All that we would ask is, that the terms of admission might be settled on the, right ground. However, we leave this to be arranged by the parties concerned, and proceed to the facts in the case of Mrs. Morris Finley. Her husband cared nothing about the matter; but that it should appear. Morris Finley was among the first—good society (so called), he looked upon as a part of his money's worth—a fair return for his expenditure, and therefore he had his full part in his wife's mortification, when, after all her pushing, her arts and trucklings, her shirking this old acquaintance and cutting that relation, their empty places were not filled by bright names in the fashionable world.
Two or three stars wandered from their sphere into Mrs. Finley's orbit; some from motives arising from a business-relation with Finley, and others from good-nature peculiar to the individuals. But these few lights only served to show the general darkness. Such vain ambition as the Finleys' might be cured, if comments like the following were overheard.
"Mrs. Kingson, do you mean to accept Mrs. Finley's invitation?"
"No, my dear."
"Why, aunt? they say it is to be something quite superb."
