Mrs. Gillespie, the great-grandchild of Benjamin Franklin, was one of my earliest Philadelphia friends—­a splendid type of the independent woman, a bit of the martinet, but immensely full of kindness and humor.  She had a word to say in all Philadelphian matters.  It would be difficult to imagine a greater contrast to Mrs. Gillespie of Philadelphia than Mrs. Fields of Boston, that other great American lady whom to know is a liberal education.

Mrs. Fields reminded me of Lady Tennyson, Mrs. Tom Taylor, and Miss Hogarth (Dickens’s sister-in-law) all rolled into one.  Her house is full of relics of the past.  There is a portrait of Dickens as a young man with long hair.  He had a feminine face in those days, for all its strength.  Hard by is a sketch of Keats by Severn, with a lock of the poet’s hair.  Opposite is a head of Thackeray, with a note in his handwriting fastened below.  “Good-bye, Mrs. Fields; good-bye, my dear Fields; good-bye to all.  I go home.”

Thackeray left Boston abruptly because a sudden desire to see his children had assailed him at Christmas time!

As you sit in Mrs. Field’s spacious room overlooking the Bay, you realize suddenly that before you ever came into it, Dickens and Thackeray were both here, that this beautiful old lady who so kindly smiles on you has smiled on them and on many other great men of letters long since dead.  It is here that they seem most alive.  This is the house where the culture of Boston seems no fad to make a joke about, but a rare and delicate reality.

This—­and Fen Court, the home of that wonderful woman Mrs. Jack Gardiner, who represents the present worship of beauty in Boston as Mrs. Fields represents its former worship of literary men.  Fen Court is a house of enchantment, a palace, and Mrs. Gardiner is like a great princess in it.  She has “great possessions” indeed, but her best, to my mind, is her most beautiful voice, even though I remember her garden by moonlight with the fountain playing, her books and her pictures, the Sargent portrait of herself presiding over one of the most splendid of those splendid rooms, where everything great in old art and new art is represented.  What a portrait it is!  Some one once said of Sargent that “behind the individual he finds the real, and behind the real, a whole social order.”

He has painted “Mrs. Jack” in a tight-fitting black dress with no ornament but her world-famed pearl necklace round her waist, and on her shoes rubies like drops of blood.  The daring, intellectual face seems to say:  “I have possessed everything that is worth possession, through the energy and effort and labor of the country in which I was born.”

Mrs. Gardiner represents all the poetry of the millionaire.

Mrs. Gardiner’s house filled me with admiration, but if I want rest and peace I just think of the houses of Mrs. James Fields and Oliver Wendell Holmes.  He was another personage in Boston life when I first went there.  Oh, the visits I inflicted on him—­yet he always seemed pleased to see me, the cheery, kind man.  It was generally winter when I called on him.  At once it was “four feet upon a fender!” Four feet upon a fender was his idea of happiness, he told me, during one of these lengthy visits of mine to his house in Beacon Street.