of proportion to the tiny shoulders of the place), was a misnomer.
Often a person, being in Fairbridge for the first time, and being
driven by way of entertainment about the rural streets, would
inquire, "Why Fairbridge?"

Bridges there were none, except those over which the trains thundered
to and from New York, and the adjective, except to old inhabitants
who had a curious fierce loyalty for the place, did not seemingly
apply. Fairbridge could hardly, by an unbiassed person who did not
dwell in the little village and view its features through the rosy
glamour of home life, be called "fair." There were a few pretty
streets, with well-kept sidewalks, and ambitious, although small
houses, and there were many lovely bits of views to be obtained,
especially in the green flush of spring, and the red glow of autumn
over the softly swelling New Jersey landscape with its warm red soil
to the distant rise of low blue hills; but it was not fair enough in
a general way to justify its name. Yet Fairbridge it was, without
bridge, or natural beauty, and no mortal knew why. The origin of the
name was lost in the petty mist of a petty past.

Fairbridge was tragically petty, inasmuch as it saw itself great. In
Fairbridge narrowness reigned, nay, tyrannised, and was not
recognised as such. There was something fairly uncanny about
Fairbridge's influence upon people after they had lived there even a
few years. The influence held good, too, in the cases of men who
daily went to business or professions in New York. Even Wall Street
was no sinecure. Back they would come at night, and the terrible,
narrow maelstrom of pettiness sucked them in. All outside interest
was as naught. International affairs seemed insignificant when once
one was really in Fairbridge.