 | CHAPTER XVII. Redwood |  |
17. CHAPTER XVII.
She bore a gay good-nature in her face,
And in her air was dignity and grace.”
Crabbe.
While the transactions so fatal to the
peace of Emily Allen were going on,
Deborah and Ellen were quietly pursuing
their journey, though not as expeditiously
as Ellen could have wished.
She had not, as has been seen, left Eton
in the most tranquil state of mind; and
she was perhaps more impatient at the
little accidents that retarded their progress,
than she would have been at another
time, or under other circumstances.
Sometimes the old racked chaise needed
repair—sometimes the horse, who, as
Deborah said, “had, like herself, seen
be favoured,” required a day's delay—
and sometimes they came into the neighbourhood
of an old acquaintance or faroff
cousin of Deborah's, and she judged
it right to diverge from their direct route
to prove to them her friendly remembrance;
for she scrupulously maintained
the New-England custom (which among
the degenerate moderns is becoming a
little unfashionable) of noticing a relative
to the remotest degree. Ellen often
felt inclined to remonstrate against these
repeated delays; but Deborah was so
much accustomed to exercise the petty
tyranny of having her own way, that
Ellen rightly concluded it would be
much easier for her to acquiesce, than
for Deborah to relinquish her habitual
control.
Ten days had elapsed, when they
stopped at a village inn in the vicinity
of the shaker settlement at Hancock:
an hostler advanced to take charge of
the reins, gave to him the most minute
directions as to the refection of her
beast; but the man, puffed up with the
transient importance which he derived
from an unusual concourse of travellers
that had filled the stables and stable-yards
of the inn with fine horses and fine equipages,
was evidently quite heedless of
Miss Debby's directions. She at last had
recourse to the usual expedient of travellers,
and though she utterly disapproved
the use of such appliances, which
she thought were little better than bribery
and corruption, she reluctantly
drew a fourpence-halfpenny from her
pocket, and giving it to the man, with
the air of one who offers ample consideration
for `value received,'—“Here,”
said she, “take this, and deal kindly
with the beast — poor fellow, he has had
a tough morning of it, what with the
heat and the hills.”
The hostler took the bit of money,
mock gravity, balanced it on the end of
his finger, as if weighing it, and then
tossed it high in air, accompanying this
last expression of his contempt with an
insolent laugh, in which he was joined
by half-a-dozen of his associates who had
gathered around him.
Deborah picked up the money as it
fell, and deliberately replacing it in her
pocket, said with perfect coolness, “A
fool and his money are soon parted—
this is a right punishment for my giving
in to these new-fangled ways. Here,
fellow, give me the reins, and call the
master of the house to me.”
This appeal to his principal reduced
the menial to his proper insignificance,
and turned the laugh against him, and
Deborah remained fairly mistress of the
field, till the landlord made his appearance.
The raised voices of the different
parties attracted several persons to the
windows and door of the inn, and Ellen
she stood awaiting the termination of
Deborah's arrangements.
“Walk in, Miss, walk in,” said the
landlord to her: “here, this way, in the
parlour: the house is considerable full,
but you'll find room enough to spare yet
— I'll attend to your mother—walk in.”
The attention was now withdrawn
from Deborah to Ellen, and each observer
probably noticed the disparity
between the supposed mother and
daughter.
“Impossible,” whispered a young
man who stood in the door-way to a lady
beside him; “that she-grenadier cannot
be mother to this pretty graceful girl.”
“Impossible is a rash word for you,
Mr. Philosopher,” replied the young
lady: “look there,” she added, pointing
to a prickly pear in flower, “there are
strange productions—odd relations in
nature.”
Ellen's ear caught enough of these
her that she was the subject of them;
and her embarrasmeut was increased
when the landlord opened the parlour
door to usher her in, and she perceived
that the room was already occupied by
a large party of travellers—she shrunk
back, and begged her conductor to show
her to a private apartment. He said that
was impossible, for his rooms were all
taken up. The young lady at the door
observed Ellen's embarrassment, and advancing,
with a mixture of good-nature
and graceful politeness, begged Ellen to
enter.
“Our party,” she said, “is of such an
unconscionable size! We travel en
masse like the patriarchs—men, women,
and children—and much cattle, and
when we have gained possession of a
territory we are quite terrible; but the
parlour of a country inn you know is
neutral ground, where all parties have
equal rights.”
A smile and a bow from Ellen expressed
her sense of the proffered courtesy,
and she passed and seated herself
at an unoccupied window.
“You are a rash woman, Miss Campbell,”
said the gentleman in a low voice,
whom Ellen had first seen at the door,
and who had followed her to the parlour.
“I see a storm lowering on Mrs. Norton's
brow, and I fear she will not permit
you the privilege of neutrality.”
“I care not, Mr. Howard—the motto
of my family arms is, `dauntless in war,
gentle in peace.”'
“My family's boastful motto also,”
replied Mr. Howard.
“Indeed!” exclaimed Miss Campbell,
“that is singular; but I hope you are
not ashamed of it,” noticing a little embarrassment
in Mr. Howard's manner.
“Oh, certainly not; though one
might blush at thinking how little we
degenerate sons can do in these peaceful
times to verify the pretensions of our
is ready to burst on your devoted head.
Mrs. Norton is beckoning to you—and
even that look of invincible good-nature
which you have assumed will not mollify
her.” Mr. Howard's eyes followed Miss
Campbell with an expression that seemed
to say, `that look is as potent as the
beauty that in the olden time disarmed
the wild beasts of their ferocity.'
“My dear Miss Campbell,” began
Mrs. Norton, drawing up her severe features
to as stern an expression, as if she
was taking up her testimony against the
depravity of the age. “My dear Miss
Campbell, I really wonder at you.”
“Wonder! Can you, Mrs. Norton,
condescend to so vulgar an emotion as
wonder?”
“But I am serious, Miss Grace.”
“So I perceive, ma'am.”
“There can be no doubt, I fancy that
you understand me?”
“Indeed I have not that pleasure.”
Few things are more mortifying to a
person of self-consequence, than to be
called on to explain the cause of a personal
irritation, which he had imagined
quite obvious. After a little fidgetting
on her chair, and clearing of her throat,
all which Miss Campbell awaited with
the most provoking serenity, the lady
spoke with the manner of one who in
her own little sphere had been looked
upon as quite oracular.
“Miss Campbell, it has ever been my
opinion, confirmed by all my experience,
and I have had more than most
people;”—she paused again, probably
from the difficulty of giving sufficient
dignity to a very small subject, and
Miss Campbell slipped in—“Incontrovertibly,
ma'am, few people live to be
more than three-score.”
“I did not mean, Miss Grace, the experience
of age; every one who lives
to a certain time has that—but the experience
of—”
“Wisdom, ma'am—sagacious observation,
&c. &c. I understand you.”
“Oh, cousin Grace, you are such a
tease,” said a young lady who sat at
Mrs. Norton's right hand, and who perceived
she was quite as much provoked
by being understood, as by not being
understood.
“Your cousin Grace,” said Mrs.
Norton, “may teaze you young ladies,
Miss Sarah, but I assure you that I am
not a subject for teazing.”
“My dear Sarah,” said Miss Campbell,
with affected gravity, “how could
you suspect me of taking such high aim
—you know mine are all random shafts,
and if they wound, are `heaven directed;'
but, Mrs. Norton, pray do not deprive
me of that valuable opinion of yours—
the result, if I remember, of unparalleled
experience.”
“I shall not be deterred from expressing
it by your ridicule, Miss Campbell;
ridicule.”
Self-respect renders one quite superior
to ridicule,” repeated Miss Campbell
with deliberation and emphasis—at the
same time taking out her pocket-book,
seemingly with the purpose of recording
on her tablets Mrs. Norton's saying—
“self respect,” she again repeated, as
she drew out her pencil, when Mrs.
Norton stopped her by exclaiming—
“Do you mean to insult me, Miss
Campbell?”
“Insult you! my dear Mrs. Norton,
Lord bless me! no—really if I have been
so unfortunate as to misunderstand you
again, you must not lay all the blame
on my poor intellects; for you talk so
much in the style of the venerable
Greeks, to such a dissultory personage
as I am every sentence sounds like an
apophthegm.”
Mrs. Armstead, the aunt of Miss
matters too far—she perceived that
Mrs. Norton felt as awkwardly as a warrior
of the olden time who should be in
his heavy coat of mail, assaulted by a
light armed soldier of the present day.
“My dear Grace,” she said, “you
have not allowed Mrs. Norton time to
explain herself. She noticed the companion
of the young woman, towards
whom you have thought proper to give
yourself such an air of patronising hospitality,
in an altercation with the
hostler—she says she is an excessively
vulgar woman, and she thinks, my dear,
that it is a great piece of presumption
for this young woman to come into our
parlour without an invitation, and
rather ill-advised in you to encourage
her assurance.”
“Thank you, my dear aunt,” replied
Grace Campbell, bowing her head with
affected deference, “for possessing me
of Mrs. Norton's views of my conduct;
turning to Mrs. Norton, “pray do not
withhold from me your own expression
of your golden opinion.”
Mrs. Norton had strong motives for
keeping well with Miss Campbell: she
was conscious that the lady's fortune,
fashion, and talents placed her in the
first class, let her make that class as
small as she would. She had been excessively
provoked at Miss Campbell's
contempt, or at best indifference for her,
but, having no alternative, she made to
herself a great merit of forgiveness,
obliged to suppress her wrath against
Miss Campbell, she meant to indemnify
herself by wreaking her vengeance on
the innocent stranger, and when she
spoke, she spoke calmly, but loud enough
to be heard by Ellen.
“Miss Grace,” she said, “there is
much excuse for one who is ignorant of
the presumption of the common people:
you have lived for the most part in town,
them.”
“Yes—unfortunately, Mrs. Norton,
but I have now and then taken a trip to
the country, and indemnified myself for
the privation. There is nothing in life
so tiresome to me as the genteel gentlemen
and ladies one meets for ever in
town—we flatter one another's prejudices—we
adopt one another's opinions
and tastes and habits till every thing individual
and peculiar is gone—we are all
formed in the same mould, and all receive
the same impression—pure gold
and base copper—all must bear the same
stamp to be current coin. It is a refreshment
to me to see the natural character
as it is developed in the strong peculiarities
one meets in the country. I love
the common people—an unpardonable
sin it may be, Mrs. Norton, but I do
love them—I love to see the undisciplined
movements of natural feeling—I
sympathise with their unaffected griefs—
I had rather receive the expression of their
cordial good-will than the compliments
of a successful winter's campaign—”
“For heaven's sake tell me, cousin
Grace,” said a gentleman who was
standing near to her, “are you addressing
this tirade in favour of rusticity to
Mrs. Norton or to Howard?”
A deep blush suffused Miss Campbell's,
cheeks; she was conscious that though
she had in the onset addressed herself
to Mrs. Norton, she had involuntarily,
and in obedience to the impulse of sympathy,
directed her eyes to Howard.
the blush was followed by a beautiful
smile, as she replied to her cousin—“Is
it strange, William, that my enthusiasm
in behalf of the contemned and neglected
should impel my eyes instinctively to
a Howard?”
“Beware instinct, Howard—instinct
is a great matter,” whispered young
Armstead, and added aloud, “do not
you believed every word of that rattlebrained
cousin of mine. She has drank
a draught of sentiment this morning on
these romantic hills; but this love of the
country and its sweet simplicity is not
her first love: she will return to town,
and run the course of fashion and folly
with the swiftest of her rivals.”
“For shame, my son: I will not suffer
your insinuations against Grace,” said
Mrs. Armstead; “I am sure she was
never fond of dissipation.”
“Oh no, my dear mother; dissipation
is a self denying ordinance with Grace;
and the admiration of half the men, and
the envy of all the women, are her
voluntary mortifications.”
“Ah, Will,” replied Miss Campbell,
“you are a snarler—a predestined old
bachelor—but you shall see that I will
deny the world and all ungodliness—
forswear your company, and live soberly
in this present life.”
“I am certain Miss Campbell has the
ability to verify the prophecy she utters,”
said Howard.
“I see it is all in vain, my good
friends,” retorted young Armstead,
assuming the gravity of a sage; “you
pour in your poisons faster than I can
administer my antidotes; so go on, and
in a few years you will drive my cousin
Grace, in spite of her good sense, into
the rank of the infallibles: our dear
mother would even now persuade you,
Grace, as the worthy Bishop Hoadley
said, `not that you cannot err, but that
you do not err.”'
“My good aunt's blindness is not
likely to prove fatal to me while I have
so clear-sighted a cousin, who with one
keen glance of his eye can pierce the
fog of vanity. But here, William,
comes a newer if not fairer subject for
your sharp-shooting.”
All eyes were now directed to the
door, and Deborah entered.
The pause occasioned by her entrance
gave Mrs. Norton an opportunity to
speak, and obliged others to listen to
her. She poured forth many wise
maxims upon the necessity of jealously
guarding the few distinctions of rank
that remained among us, and concluded
with the condescending declaration, that
she always made it a point to speak to
persons she met at an inn, but she took
good care they should understand, `thus
far shalt thou come and no farther.'
Young Armstead ventured to express
a fear that the wave of the multitude
would be too strong for her supreme
command; but for the most part the
good lady talked without being heeded.
Every eye seemed fixed on Deborah,
who on entering had given a good natured
nod to the Armstead party, and
had proceeded in her operations with as
much nonchalance as if she had been in
her own little bed room at home and
up to a small looking-glass—threw aside
her bonnet, and began smoothing her
refractory locks with a pocket-comb,
while she recounted to Ellen, in her
homeliest phrase, and with the exultation
of a victor, her success in securing
the best hospitalities of the manger
for her good steed, and boasted that
like a faithful mistress, she had insisted
on being an eye-witness of his accommodations.
It must be confessed that Ellen felt a
little disturbed at the ludicrous figure
her companion made in the eyes of the
fashionable party who were observing
her. She perceived that the mirth of
the young people was only kept within
decent limits by the gravity of their
elders, and that gravity was maintained
by a difficult effort. She averted her
eyes and looked out of the window,
when Deborah who had finished her
that garnished the walls, again exacted
her attention.
“For the land's sake, Ellen,” she said
“come and look at these pictures and tell
me what this means—here is something
that puzzles me;” and she fixed her
eyes on an embroidered Hector and Andromache,
the fruit at least of three
months' labour of one of the young lady
artists of the inn.
“That man,” she said pointing to the
Trojan hero, “is dressed in the uniform
of the Connecticut reg'lars, at least it is
as much like that as any thing, and I
take it to be the likeness of Col. Smith.
I remember he had a wife and one child,
and he parted from them just before the
battle of Garmantown, where he lost
his life, and a great many other brave
fellows that have never been stitched
into a pictur, lost theirs too. It's always
your generals and colonels that get all
the profit and honour while they live,
while the poor fellows that suffer hunger
and cold die, and are never named
nor thought of. But what signifies it;
for the `same event happeneth to all,'
as Solomon says.”
“And it is the honest life that precedes
the `event,' and not the honour
which follows it, that makes all the difference,”
said Miss Campbell, advancing
to Deborah, and entering into her feelings
with evident pleasure,
“Very true, Miss—and very well
said,” replied Debby, heartily. “Maybe
Miss,” she added, with an earnest
manner, which indicated that a very
slight observation of Miss Campbell
had inspired a great respect for her
powers, “maybe Miss, you can help
Ellen explain these outlandish names
that puzzle me. I am sure there was
not in all the Connecticut reg'lars such
a name as Hector, and as to the other,
I can't make any thing out of it.”
“They are fancy names I imagine,”
said Ellen, willing to avoid an explanation.
Deborah passed on to a coarse engraving
of Solomon's temple, which
she gazed on with at least as honest a
rapture as a connoisseur would have
felt at the cartoons of Raphael. She
commented on its length, breadth, and
depth, with critical accuracy, observed
the number of porches, pillars, windows
and doors, and concluded with expressing
her delight that she had `at last
seen a pictur of old king Solomon's
temple.'
Deborah poured forth her comments
without heeding the whispers, the stares
and smiles that her oddity excited; but
Ellen saw and heard all; and more
pained that her honest friend should be
the subject of ridicule, than mortified
on her own account, she drew her out
of the room into the little piazza in
front of the house, and earnestly recommended
journey immediately. Her arguments
however had no weight with Deborah;
but while she still urged them, their attention
was attracted by an alarming
outcry. The cause of it was at once
obvious. A chaise had been overset in
the village street, the horse was running
with the broken vehicle at his heels at
full speed, while half a score of men
where in breathless pursuit; a little
child stood in the road before the door,
his danger was apparent, and his destruction
seemed inevitable: the party
in the house joined their cries to those
in the street, while a voice of terror and
agony loud above all the rest, screamed,
“my child, my child!” The horse received
a new impetus from these frightful
screams, while the little fellow stood
facing the danger quite unappalled, and
resolutely threw his hat at the horse.
Deborah and Ellen darted forward
at the same instant—Deborah attempted
but the force of her arm turned him
aside from his course, while Ellen
snatched the child, and turning, placed
it in the arms of its mother, who had
just reached the door, and trembling,
almost fainting, extended them to receive
her child. This was all the operation
of an instant. The whole party
from the parlour now surrounded Deborah
and Ellen.
Mrs. Armstead, (for she was the
mother) as soon as she had tranquillized
her feelings sufficiently to speak, overwhelmed
the preservers of her child
with expressions of gratitude. The
brothers and sisters crowded about, and
embraced the little boy who seemed to
wonder why he had caused such emotion;
while Miss Campbell advancing to
Ellen, and gracefully offering her hand,
said, that her “llittle 'scape-death cousin
had obtained for her the right to beg
the name and acquaintance of her whose
She proceeded to lavish praises on Ellen
for her prompt courage; but Ellen
modestly declined them, saying, she
had been impelled by instinct to the
action, and was quite unconscious of any
danger till it was past.
The ice being thus broken, the young
ladies, after discussing every particular
of the `hair breadth 'scape,' proceeded
to an animated conversation on various
subjects, which elicited the characters
of each, and inspired them with mutual
admiration. Perhaps they liked each
other the better because, though there
was a general agreement between them
in tastes and sentiments, there was a
striking difference in some particulars.
Ellen's manners, without any of the
awkwardness or gaucherie of bashfulness
or ignorance, were timid, and, with
strangers, rather reserved and retiring;
while Miss Campbell had the assured
air of one who has held a high command
habit it was to take the lead in the
world of fashion. Ellen, with one of
the sweetest voices in the world, talked
in rather a low tone—the style of her
conversation was unambitious and simple,
and though it often took a rich
colouring from the bright rays of genius
and feeling, like those glowing hues
which fall on the summer landscape,
and which no contrivance of art can
produce or imitate, there was nothing
said to court attention or excite admiration.
Miss Campbell talked rather loud,
and with spirit and fluency; she had the
fearless manner of one who has often
felt her own power, and the weakness
of others: she dashed on like an impetuous
mountain stream, disdaining obstruction
and careless of opposition.
She had evidently been accustomed to
occupy the fore-ground of the picture,
to be the primary object of attention.
the feeling that suffused Ellen's
face with blushes, and imparted tremulousness
to her voice, when she found
herself the object of an admiring observation.
Miss Campbell had been so accustomed
to the homage of society, that
the excitement had become as necessary
to her as the applause of an audience to
a popular actor. In the midst of her
most animated and eloquent sallies, her
eye would glance rapidly around her
circle of auditors, to catch new inspiration
from the silent tribute of their
enchained attention. With these faults,
she had such a fund of good sense, such
invincible good humour and unaffected
benevolence, that she commanded the
love, the respect even of those who were
most sensible of her imperfections. Her
virtues were her own, the luxuriant
growth of a rich soil; her faults the
result of accident, the weeds permitted
by neglect, or occasioned by improper
regular beauty, but her graceful person
and fine expression gave to her appearance
the effect of beauty,
Mrs. Armstead, her aunt, resided in
Philadelphia, and was on a jaunt to
Boston by the way of Lebanon springs.
Mrs. Norton was an old acquaintance
and distant relation, whom she had met
accidentally. Mr. Howard had been introduced
by young Armstead into his
mother's family a few weeks before they
left home, and recommended to their
regard as an old college friend from
Boston.
This introduction is necessary to our
readers, but even these concise particulars
are more than our travellers ascertained
of their new friends. The little
boy who had been rescued seemed
to have been struck by the manly
genius of Deborah, and attached himself
to her—and the whole party, with
emulous of showing civility to Deborah,
and admiration of Miss Bruce. Mrs.
Armstead, anxious to improve her brief
opportunity of expressing her gratitude,
lavished her attentions on Ellen, placed
her next herself at table, and melted
away all reserve by the warmth of her
kindness.
The dinner being over, preparations
were made for the departure of all
parties. Deborah's primitive looking
chaise and ancient horse, were led to
the door in the rear of Mrs. Armstead's
elegant carriage, which with the dashing
gig and tandem of her son, and the horses
of their outriders effectually `stopped
the way.' While the servants were adjusting
some light baggage, dried fruits
and cakes for the young people, the
late publications for their elders, &c. &c.
Miss Campbell said to Ellen, “you
must allow me to borrow a New-England
`journeying?' we cannot part from you
without the hope at least of meeting
again.”
“It is not impossible we may,” replied
Ellen, “for my companion has just
announced to me, that if we are successful
in attaining the object of our coming
to this vicinity, she intends visiting
Lebanon springs for a few days.”
“Successful or not successful, Ellen,”
interrupted Deborah, “I shall go to the
pool, for I hear those waters are a master-cure
for the rheutmatis.”
“Oh, I am told quite equal to Bethesda,”
said Miss Campbell; “and as
you take along with you an angel to
trouble them, you may be sure of experiencing
their efficacy. But seriously,
Miss Bruce, I hope no consideration
will deter you: we are to linger in the
adjacent villages for a day or two, and
then go to Lebanon, and I am certain
there, my aunt will insist on your attaching
yourselves to our party.”
“Grace,” said Mrs. Armstead, “you
anticipate my wishes—you would indeed,
Miss Bruce, do me a great favour by
enrolling yourselves in my party.” And
the young ladies exclaimed, “how glad
I shall be—and how pleasant it will
be.”
Ellen gracefully returned her thanks
to each and all, while Deborah, quite
ignorant of the tactics of the polite
world, comprehended nothing of the offered
civility, but that it was meant in
kindness, and therefore deserved the
hearty thanks which she replied to it.
“Come my dear girls,” said Mrs.
Armstead, “we must despatch this leavetaking;
every thing I see is in readiness.”
“Our friends,” said Miss Campbell,
“must start first. Be good enough,
William, to order the servant to lead forward
she added smiling, “his age and virtues
entitle him to precedence.”
The two parties now proceeded to
make their adieus; and the young ladies,
each as they took Ellen's hand, slipped
on her finger a ring, which they begged
her to take for a keepsake.
The little boy, watchful of every thing
concerning his new friends, observed
this—he drew from his pocket a net
purse, through the interstices of which
shone a golden guinea, and swelling
with manly pride, he offered it to Deborah.
Deborah patted him on the head, called
him a young prince, said his life was
worth saving, and as a matter of course
she handed the purse to his mother.
“Oh no, no, Miss Lenox,” said Mrs.
Armstead, “you must keep it indeed, it
would quite break my little boy's heart
if you despised his gift.”
“Despice it, ma'am,” rejoined Deborah,
surveying it with unfeigned
delight. “I was never the owner of a
golden guinea in my life, and I thought
it would be an imposition to take it—
but I shall take good care of it,” and
she carefully deposited it in her pocket,
adding, “Mr. John, your guinea will
seldom see daylight while I live.”
The last parting words were said—the
last kind looks reciprocated, and all
parties arranging themselves in their
own places, Deborah drove off in one
direction, and Mrs. Armstead and her
suite in another. As the children
stretched their necks out of the carriage
to send their last lingering look towards
the old chaise and the humble Rosinante
that drew it heavily along, Mrs Armstead
remarked, “how little the young
and the truly wise estimate that which
is essentially good and lovely by external
appearances.”
“As I cannot in conscience, my dear
aunt,” said Miss Campbell, “take a place
in either of those classes, being not very
young and certainly not belonging to
the `select few' of the `truly wise,' I
must investigate the cause of my prompt
admiration of our new acquaintance.”
She shook her head after a moment's
deliberation, and added, “I can take no
praise to myself, for that charming
Miss Bruce is a self-evident lady—and
her companion—an exception to all rules
—just hit one of my wayward fancies.”
“And I rather think, Grace,” said
young Armstead, (who had taken his
sister's place in the carriage,) “you
were not sorry to have an opportunity
of giving to our cousin Norton a practical
instance of your contempt of her aristocracy—and
of manifesting to another
observer your elevation above the prejudices
of society.”
Miss Campbell did not notice the last
a slight blush: she pleaded guilty to
the desire of mortifying the baseless
pride of Mrs. Norton. “There was nothing,”
she said, “more essentially vulgar
than the consequence that betrayed,
by its perpetual vigilance and jealousy,
a consciousness that there existed no intrinsic
superiority—an exclusive bigoted
spirit ought not to receive any toleration
in our society—it was opposed to the
genius and tendencies of every thing
about us—we were happily exempt from
the servitude of oriental castes, and the
scarcely less arbitrary classifications
of more liberal countries. Superior talents—education—manners—the
habits
of refined life, were the only distinctions
that ought to obtain among us, and they
were quite obvious.”
“Ah coz, I see how it is. Like the
Duchess of Gordon, who replied to the
managers of the city assembly at New-York,
being able to offer her the precedence to
which her rank entitled her, `never
mind, Gentlemen, wherever I am, there
is the Duchess of Gordon.' Like her
Grace, you are satisfied that Miss Campbell's
is the first place—that modern
heraldry of merit will always give precedence.”
“Thank you, William, for your generous
personal application of my principles
—you need not shake your head—I am in
no danger of mistaking any thing you
say to me for a compliment.”
“Believe me, Grace,” replied her
cousin, affectionately taking her hand,
“I never was in more imminent danger
of joining my voice to the coral song of
your flatterers. I sympathise entirely
in your desire to dissipate the illusions of
our conceited, and thank Heaven, `faroff'
cousin Norton—in your admiration
of our new acquaintance, and in some
his voice to a whisper, “that are getting
the mastery in your heart—and I pray
heaven you may always shew yourself
as entirely superior to the adventitious
distinctions of the world, as with your
character you may afford to be.”
“A bona fide compliment from William
Armstead!—Saul among the prophets!”
exclaimed Grace Campbell.
LONDON:
SHACKELL AND ARROWSMITH, JOHNSON'S-COURT, FLEET-STREET.
| CHAPTER XVII. Redwood | |