University of Virginia Library

3. CHAPTER III.

Happy, happy Lilacsbush! Never can I forget the delight
with which I roamed over its heights and glens, and
how I rioted in the pleasure of feeling I was again a sort
of master in those scenes which had been the haunts of my
boyhood! It was in the spring of 1784 before I was folded

to the arms of my mother; and this, too, after a separation
of near two years. Kate laughed, and wept, and hugged
me, just as she would have done five years earlier, though
she was now a lovely young woman, turned of nineteen.
As for aunt Mary, she shook hands, gave me a kind kiss or
two, and smiled on me affectionately, in her own quiet,
gentle manner. The house was in a tumult, for Jaap returned
with me, his wool well sprinkled with grey, and there
were lots of little Satanstoes (for such was his family name,
notwithstanding Mrs. Jaap called herself Miss Lilacsbush),
children and grandchildren to welcome him. To say the
truth, the house was not decently tranquil for the first
twenty-four hours.

At the end of that time, I ordered my horse to ride across
the country to Satanstoe, in order to visit my widowed
grandmother, who had resisted all attempts to persuade her
to give up the cares of housekeeping, and to come and live
at Lilacsbush. The general, for so everybody now called
my father, did not accompany me, having been at Satanstoe
a day or two before; but my sister did. As the roads had
been much neglected in the war, we went in the saddle,
Kate being one of the most spirited horsewomen of my acquaintance.
By this time, Jaap had got to be privileged,
doing just such work as suited his fancy; or, it might be
better to say, was not of much use except in the desultory
employments that had so long been his principal pursuits;
and he was sent off an hour or two before we started ourselves,
to let Mrs. Littlepage, or his “ole—ole missus,” as
the fellow always called my grandmother, know whom she
was to expect to dinner.

I have heard it said that there are portions of the world
in which people get to be so sophisticated, that the nearest
of kin cannot take such a liberty as this. The son will not
presume to take a plate at the table of the father without
observing the ceremony of asking, or of being asked! Heaven
be praised! we have not yet reached this pass in America.
What parent, or grandparent, to the remotest living
generation, would receive a descendant with anything but a
smile, or a welcome, let him come when and how he will.
If there be not room, or preparation, the deficiencies must
be made up in welcomes; or, when absolute impossibilities

interpose, if they are not overcome by means of a quick invention,
as most such “impossibilities” are, the truth is
frankly told, and the pleasure is deferred to a more fortunate
moment. It is not my intention to throw a vulgar and
ignorant jibe into the face of an advanced civilization, as is
too apt to be the propensity of ignorance and provincial
habits; for I well know that most of the usages of those
highly improved conditions of society are founded in reason,
and have their justification in a cultivated common sense;
but, after all, mother nature has her rights, and they are
not to be invaded too boldly, without bringing with the acts
themselves their merited punishments.

It was just nine, on a fine May morning, when Kate
Littlepage and myself rode through the outer gate of Lilacsbush,
and issued upon the old, well-known, Kingsbridge
road. Kings-bridge! That name still remains, as do those
of the counties of Kings and Queens, and Duchess, to say
nothing of quantities of Princes this and that, in other States;
and I hope they always may remain, as so many landmarks
in our history. These names are all that now remain among
us of the monarchy; and yet have I heard my father say a
hundred times, that when a young man, his reverence for
the British throne was second only to his reverence for the
church. In how short a time has this feeling been changed
throughout an entire nation; or, if not absolutely changed,
for some still continue to reverence monarchy, how widely
and irremediably has it been impaired! Such are the things
of the world, perishable and temporary in their very natures;
and they would do well to remember the truth, who
have much at stake in such changes.

We stopped at the door of the inn at Kingsbridge to say
good morning to old Mrs. Light, the landlady, who had now
kept the house half a century, and who had known us, and
our parents before us, from childhood. This loquacious
housewife had her good and bad points, but habit had given
her a sort of claim on our attentions, and I could not pass
her door without drawing the rein, if it were only for a moment.
This was no sooner done, than the landlady, in
person, was on her threshold to greet us.

“Ay, I dreamt this, Mr. Mordaunt,” the old woman exclaimed,
the instant she saw me — “I dreamt this, no later

than last week! It is nonsense to deny it; dreams do often
come true!”

“And what has been your dream this time, Mrs. Light?”
I asked, well knowing it was to come, and the sooner we
got it the better.

“I dreamt the general had come home last fall, and he
had come home! Now, the only idee I had to help out
that dream was a report that he was to be home that day;
but you know, Mr. Mordaunt, or major Littlepage they tell
me I ought now to call you—but, you know, Mr. Mordaunt,
how often reports turn out to be nothing. I count a report
as no great help to a dream. So last week, I dreamed you
would certainly be home this week; and here you are, sure
enough!”

“And all without any lying report to help you, my good
landlady?”

“Why, no great matter; a few flying rumours, perhaps;
but as I never believe them when awake, it 's onreasonable
to suppose a body would believe 'em when asleep. Yes,
Jaaf stopped a minute to water his horse this morning, and
I foresaw from that moment my dream would come to be
true, though I never exchanged a word with the nigger.”

“That is a little remarkable, Mrs. Light, as I supposed
you always exchanged a few words with your guests.”

“Not with the blacks, major; it is apt to make 'em sassy.
Sassiness in a nigger is a thing I can't abide, and therefore
I keep 'em all at a distance. Well, the times that I have
seen, major, since you went off to the wars! and the changes
we have had! Our clergyman don't pray any longer for
the king and queen—no more than if there wasn't sich people
living!”

“Not directly, perhaps, but as part of the church of God,
I trust. We all pray for congress, now.”

“Well, I hope good will come out of it! I must say,
major, that His Majesty's officers spent more freely, and
paid in better money, than the continental gentlemen. I 've
had 'em both here, by rijjiments, and that 's the character I
must give 'em, in honesty.”

“You will remember they were richer, and had more
money than our people. It is easy for the rich to appear
liberal.”

“Yes, I know that, sir, and you ought, and do know it,
too. The Littlepages are rich, and always have been, and
they are liberal too. Lord bless your smiling, pretty faces!
I knowed your family long afore you knowed it yourselves.
I know'd old captain Hugh Roger, your great-grand'ther,
and the old general, your grand'ther, and now I know the
young general, and you! Well, this will not be the last of
you, I dares to say, and there 'll be light hearts, and happy
ones among the Bayards, I 'll answer for it, now the wars
are over, and young major Littlepage has got back!”

This terminated the discourse; for, by this time, I had
enough of it; and making my bow, Kate and I rode on.
Still, I could not but be struck with the last speech of the
old woman, and most of all with the manner in which it was
uttered. The name of Bayard was well known among us,
belonging to a family of which there were several branches
spread through the Middle States, as far south as Delaware;
but I did not happen to know a single individual of them all.
What, then, could my return have to do with the smiles or
frowns of any of the name of Bayard? It was natural
enough, after ruminating a minute or two on the subject,
that I should utter some of my ideas, on such a subject, to
my companion.

“What could the old woman mean, Kate,” I abruptly
commenced, “by saying there would now be light hearts
and happy ones among the Bayards?”

“Poor Mrs. Light is a great gossip, Mordaunt, and it
may be questioned if she know her own meaning half the
time. All the Bayards we know are the family at the
Hickories; and with them, you have doubtless heard, my
mother has long been intimate.”

“I have heard nothing about it, child. All I know is
that there is a place called the Hickories, up the river a few
miles, and that it belongs to some of the Bayards; but I
never heard of any intimacy. On the contrary, I remember
to have heard that there was a lawsuit once, between my
grandfather Mordaunt and some old Bayard or other; and
I thought we were a sort of hereditary strangers.”

“That is quite forgotten, and my mother says it all arose
from a mistake. We are decided friends now.”

“I 'm sure I am very glad to hear it; for, since it is
peace, let us have peace; though old enemies are not apt to
make very decided friends.”

“But we never were—that is, my grandfather never was
an enemy of anybody; and the whole matter was amicably
settled just before he went to Europe, on his unfortunate
visit to Sir Harry Bulstrode. No—no—my mother will tell
you, Mordaunt, that the Littlepages and the Bayards now
regard each other as very decided friends.”

Kate spoke with so much earnestness that I was disposed
to take a look at her. The face of the girl was flushed, and
I fancy she had a secret consciousness of the fact; for she
turned it from me as if gazing at some object in the opposite
direction, thereby preventing me from seeing much of it.

“I am very glad to learn all this,” I answered, a little
drily. “As I am a Littlepage, it would have been awkward
not to have known it, had I accidentally met with one of
these Bayards. Does the peace include all of the name, or
only those of the Hickories?”

Kate laughed; then she was pleased to tell me that I was
to consider myself the friend of all of the name.

“And most especially of those of the name who dwell at
the Hickories?”

“How many may there be of this especially peaceful
breed?—six, a dozen, or twenty?”

“Only four; so your task will make no very heavy demand
on your affections. Your heart has room, I trust, for
four more friends?”

“For a thousand, if I can find them, my dear. I can
accept as many friends as you please, but have places for
none else. All the other niches are occupied.”

“Occupied! — I hope that is not true, Mordaunt. One
place, at least, is vacant.”

“True; I had forgotten a place must be reserved for the
brother you will, one day, give me. Well, name him, as
soon as you please; I shall be ready to love him, child.”

“I may never make so heavy a draft on your affections.
Anneke has given you a brother already, and a very excellent
one he is, and that ought to satisfy a reasonable
man.”

“Ay, so all you young women say between fifteen and
twenty, but you usually change your mind in the end. The
sooner you tell me who the youth is, therefore, the sooner I
shall begin to like him — is he one of these Bayards? — un
chevalier sans peur et sans reproche?”

Kate had a brilliant complexion, in common; but, as I
now turned my eyes towards her inquiringly, more in mischief,
however, than with the expectation of learning anything
new, I saw the roses of her cheeks expand until they
covered her temples. The little beaver she wore, and which
became her amazingly, did not suffice to conceal these
blushes, and I now really began to suspect I had hit on a
vein that was sensitive. But, my sister was a girl of spirit,
and, though it was no difficult thing to make her change
colour, it was by no means easy to look her down.

“I trust your new brother, Mordaunt, should there ever
be such a person, will be a respectable man, if not absolutely
without reproach,” she answered. “But, if there be
a Tom Bayard, there is also a Pris. Bayard, his sister.”

“So — so — this is all news to me, indeed! As to Mr.
Thomas Bayard, I shall ask no questions, my interest in
him, if there is to be any, being altogether ex officio, as one
may say, and coming as a matter of course; but you will
excuse me if I am a little curious on the subject of Miss
Priscilla Bayard, a lady, you will remember, I never saw.”

My eye was on Kate the whole time, and I fancied she
looked gratified, though she still looked confused.

“Ask what you will, brother—Priscilla Bayard can bear
a very close examination.”

“In the first place, then, did that old gossip allude to
Miss Priscilla, by saying there would be light hearts and
happy ones among the Bayards?”

“Nay, I cannot answer for poor Mrs. Light's conceits.
Put your questions in some other form.”

“Is there much intimacy between the people of the 'Bush
and those of the Hickories?”

“Great — we like them exceedingly; and I think they
like us.”

“Does this intimacy extend to the young folk, or is it
confined to the old?”

“That is somewhat personal,” said Kate, laughing, “as
I happen to be the only `young folk' at the 'Bush, to maintain
the said intimacy. As there is nothing to be ashamed
of, however, but, on the contrary, much of which one may
be proud, I shall answer that it includes `all ages and both
sexes;' everybody but yourself, in a word.”

“And you like old Mr. Bayard?”

“Amazingly.”

“And old Mrs. Bayard?”

“She is a very agreeable person, and an excellent wife
and mother.”

“And you love Pris. Bayard?”

“As the apple of mine eye,” the girl answered, with emphasis.

“And you like Tom Bayard, her brother?”

“As much as is decent and proper for one young woman
to like the brother of another young woman, whom she admits
that she loves as the apple of her eye.”

Although it was not easy, at least not easy for me, to
cause Kate Littlepage to hold her tongue, it was not easy
for her to cause the tell-tale blood always to remain stationary.
She was surprisingly beautiful in her blushes, and
as much like what I had often fancied my dear mother might
have been in her best days as possible, at the very moment
she was making these replies, as steadily as if they gave her
no trouble.

“How is all this, then, connected with rejoicings among
the people of the Hickories, at my return? Are you the
betrothed of Tom Bayard, and have you been waiting for
my return to give him your hand?”

“I am not the betrothed to Tom Bayard, and have not
been waiting for your return to give him my hand,” answered
Kate, steadily. “As for Mrs. Light's gossippings,
you cannot expect me to explain them. She gets her reports
from servants, and others of that class, and you know what
such reports are usually worth. But, as for my waiting for
your return, brother, in order to announce such an event,
you little know how much I love you, if you suppose I would
do any such thing.”

Kate said this with feeling, and I thanked her with my
eyes, but could not have spoken, and did not speak, until

we had ridden some distance. After this pause, I renewed
the discourse with some of its original spirit.

“On that subject, Katrinke, dear,” I said, “I trust we
understand each other. Single, or married, you will ever
be very dear to me; and I own I should be hurt to be one
of the last to learn your engagement, whenever that may
happen. And, now for this Pris. Bayard — do you expect
me to like her?”

“Do I! It would be one of the happiest moments of my
life, Mordaunt, when I could hear you acknowledge that
you love her!”

This was uttered with great animation, and in a way to
show that my sister was very much in earnest. I felt some
surprise when I put this feeling in connection with the landlady's
remarks, and began to suspect there might be something
behind the curtain worthy of my knowledge. In order
to make discoveries, however, it was necessary to pursue the
discourse.

“Of what age is Miss Bayard?” I demanded.

“She is two months my senior — very suitable, is it
not?”

“I do not object to the difference, which will do very
well. Is she accomplished?”

“Not very. You know few of us girls who have been
educated during the revolution, can boast of much in that
way; though Priscilla is better than common.”

“Than of her class, you mean, of course?”

“Certainly — better than most young ladies of our best
families.”

“Is she amiable?”

“As Anneke, herself!”

This was saying a great deal, our eldest sister, as often
happens in families, being its paragon in the way of all the
virtues, and Anneke's temper being really serenity itself.

“You give her a high character, and one few girls could
sustain. Is she sensible and well-informed?”

“Enough so as often to make me feel ashamed of myself.
She has an excellent mother, Mordaunt; and I have heard
you say, often, that the mother would have great influence
with you in choosing a wife.”

“That must have been when I was very young, child,
and before I went to the army, where we look more at the
young than at the old women. But, why a wife?—Is it all
settled between the old people, that I am to propose to this
Priscilla Bayard, and are you a party to the scheme?”

Kate laughed with all her heart, but I fancied she looked
conscious.

“You make no answer, young lady, and you must permit
me to remind you that there is an express compact between
you and me to treat each other frankly on all occasions.
This is one on which I especially desire to see the
conditions of the treaty rigidly enforced. Does any such
project exist?”

“Not as a project, discussed and planned—no—certainly
not. No, a thousand times, no. But, I shall run the risk
of frustrating one of my most cherished hopes, by saying,
honestly, that you could not gratify my dear mother, aunt
Mary, and myself, more than by falling in love with Pris.
Bayard. We all love her ourselves, and we wish you to be
of the party, knowing that your love would probably lead
to a connection we should all like, more than I can express.
There; you cannot complain of a want of frankness, for I
have heard it said, again and again, that the wishes of
friends, indiscreetly expressed, are very apt to set young
men against the very person it is desired to make them admire.”

“Quite likely to be true as a rule, though in my case no
effect, good or bad, will be produced. But, how do the
Bayards feel in this matter?”

“How should I know!—Of course, no allusion has ever
been made to any of the family on the subject; and, as none
of them know you, it is im—that is, no allusion—I mean—
certainly not to more than one of them. I believe some
vague remarks may have been ventured to one—but—”

“By yourself, and to your friend, Pris.?”

“Never”—said Kate, with emphasis. “Such a subject
could never be mentioned between us.”

“Then it must have been between the old ladies — the
two mothers, probably?”

“I should think not. Mrs. Bayard is a woman of reserve,
and mamma has an extreme sense of propriety, as you

know yourself, that would not be likely to permit such a
thing.”

“Would the general think of contracting me, when my
back was turned!”

“Not he — papa troubles himself very little about such
things. Ever since his return home, he has been courting
mamma over again, he tells us.”

“Surely, aunt Mary has not found words for such an
allusion!”

“She, indeed! Poor, dear aunt Mary; it is little she
meddles with any one's concerns but her own. Do you
know, Mordaunt, that mamma has told me the whole of her
story lately, and the reason why she has refused so many
excellent offers. I dare say, if you ask her, she will tell
you.”

“I know the whole story already, from the general, child.
But, if this matter has been alluded to, to one of the Bayards,
and neither my father, mother, nor aunt Mary, has made
the allusion on our side, and neither Mr. Bayard, his wife
nor daughter, has been the party to whom the allusion has
been made on the other, there remains only yourself and
Tom to hold the discourse. I beg you to explain this point
with your customary frankness.”

Kate Littlepage's face was scarlet. She was fairly caught,
though I distrusted the truth from the moment she so stammered
and hesitated in correcting her first statement. I
will own I enjoyed the girl's confusion, it made her appear
so supremely lovely; and I was almost as proud of her, as
I tenderly loved her. Dear, dear Kate; from her childhood
I had my own amusement with her, though I do not remember
anything like a harsh expression, or an unkind feeling,
that has ever passed, or indeed existed, between us. A
finer study than the face of my sister offered for the next
minute, was never presented to the eye of man; and I enjoyed
it so much the more, from a strong conviction that,
while so deeply confused, she was not unhappy. Native
ingenuousness, maiden modesty, her habit of frank dealing
with me, and a wish to continue so to deal, were all struggling
together in her fine countenance, forming altogether
one of the most winning pictures of womanly feelings I had
ever witnessed. At length, the love of fair-dealing, and love

of me, prevailed over a factitious shame; the colour settled
back to those cheeks whence it had appeared to flash, as it
might be, remaining just enough heightened to be remarked,
and Kate looked towards me in a way that denoted all the
sisterly confidence and regard that she actually felt.

“I did not intend to be the one to communicate to you a
fact, Mordaunt, in which I know you will feel a deep interest,
for I had supposed my mother would save me the
confusion of telling it to you; but, now, there is no choice
between resorting to equivocations that I do not like, and
using our old long-established frankness.”

“The long and short of which, my dear sister, is to say
that you are engaged to Mr. Bayard!”

“No; not as strong as that, brother. Mr. Bayard has
offered, and my answer is deferred until you have met him.
I would not engage myself, Mordaunt, until you approved
of my choice.”

“I feel the compliment, Katrinke, and will be certain to
repay it, in kind. Depend on it, you shall know, in proper
season, when it is my wish to marry, and shall be heard.”

“There is a difference between the claims of an elder
and an only brother, and of a mere girl, who ought to place
much dependence on the advice of friends, in making her
own selection.”

“You will not be a `mere girl' when that time comes,
but a married woman yourself, and competent to give good
counsel from your own experience. To return to Tom,
however; he is the member of his family to whom the allusion
was made?”

“He was, Mordaunt,” answered Kate, in a low voice.

“And you were the person who made it?”

“Very true — we were talking of you, one day; and I
expressed a strong hope that you would see Priscilla with
the eyes with which, I can assure you, all the rest of your
family see her. That was all.”

“And that was quite enough, child, to cause Tom Bayard
to hang himself, if he were a lover of the true temper.”

“Hang himself, brother! I am sure I do not understand
why?”

“Oh! merely at the palpable discouragement such a wish
would naturally convey to the brother of the young lady,

since he must have seen you were willing to connect the
two families by means other than giving him your own
hand.”

Kate laughed; but, as she did not look much confused,
or at all alarmed, I was induced to believe that more important
encouragement than could be afforded by means of
her wish of marrying me to her suitor's sister, had been
given master Tom, and that my disapproval of the gentleman
would cause her more concern than she chose to avow.
We rode on, however, some little distance, without either's
offering to renew the discourse. At length, as became my
sex, I spoke.

“When am I to see this paragon young man, and paragon
young woman, Kate, since see both I must?”

“Not paragon young man, brother; I am certain I have
called him by no such name! Tom Bayard is a good fellow;
but I do not know he is, by any means, a paragon.”

“He is a good looking fellow, in the bargain, I take it for
granted?”

“Not as much so as you are yourself, if that will gratify
your vanity.”

“It ought to, coming from such a quarter. My question
is still unanswered, notwithstanding.”

“To own the truth to you, Mordaunt, I expect we shall
find Tom Bayard and Pris at Satanstoe, to dine with my
grandmother. She wrote me word, a day or two since, that
both are asked, and that she hoped both would accept.”

“The old lady is then in the plot, and intends to marry
me, will ye, nill ye? I had thought this visit altogether a
scheme of my own!”

Kate again laughed, and told me I might make my own
observations on that point, and judge for myself. As for
the visit, I had only accidentally favoured a project of other's.
The conversation now changed, and for several miles we
rode along, conversing of the scenes of the war, without
adverting to the Bayards, or to marriages.

We were within half a mile of the gate of the Neck, and
within a mile of the house, when we met Jaap returning to
Lilacsbush, and carrying some fruit to my mother, after
having discharged his commission of an avant courier.
From Kate's remark I had discovered we had been invited

by letter to take this excursion, though the ceremony of
sending the negro across with his message had been observed
for reasons that were not very natural under the
circumstances. I made no remark, however, determining
to see and judge for myself.

As a matter of course, we drew our reins, and stopped to
exchange a few words with the black.

“Well, Jaap, how did the Neck look, after so long an
absence?” I inquired.

“It look, sah, no means as well as ole Missus, who do
look capital, for sich a lady! Dey do won'ers with 'e Neck,
sah, if you just b'lieve all young nigger say. But, what
you t'ink, Masser Mordy, I hear at 'e tavern, where I jist
stop, sah, to water ole Dick?”

“And to get a sup of cider for old Jaap” — hereupon the
negro laughed heartily, though he had the impudence neither
to own nor to deny the imputation, his weakness in
favour of wring-jaw being a well-established failing—“Well,
what did you hear, while taking down the usual mug?”

“I on'y get half a mug dis time, sah; ole, ole Missus
nebber forgettin' to gib me jist as much as I want. Well,
sah, while ole Dick drink, 'e new landlady, who come from
Connetick, you know, sah, she say to me, `Where you go,
ole colour' gentleum?' Dat war' civil, any how.”

“To which you answered—”

“I answer her, sah, and say I go to Satanstoe, whar' I
come from, long time 'go.”

“Whereupon, she made some observation or other —
Well, what was it?—You keep Miss Littlepage waiting.”

“Lor' bless her, sah — it my business to wait on Miss
Katrinke, not her business to wait on me—Why you speak
so droll, now, Masser Mordy?”

“Never mind all that, Jaap — what did the new Connecticut
lady say, when you told her you were going to Satanstoe,
the place where you had come from, a long time
ago?”

“What she say, Masser Mordy, sah? — She say great
foolishness, and make me mad. `What you call by dat awful
name?' she say, making face like as if she see a spook.
`You must mean Dibbleton,' she say — `dat 'e way all 'e

people as is genteel call 'e Neck!' Did you ebber hear 'e
like, sah?”

“Oh! yes; I heard the like of it, as soon as I was born;
the attempt to change the name of our old place having
existed, now, these thirty years. Why, some people call
Hellgate, Hurlgate; after that, one may expect anything.
Do you not know, Jaap, a Yankee is never satisfied, unless
he is effecting changes? One half his time, he is altering
the pronunciation of his own names, and the other half he
is altering ours. Let him call the place what he will, you
and I will stick to Satanstoe.”

“Dat we will, sah — gib 'e debbil his due, sah; dat an
ole sayin'. I'm sure anybody as has eyes, can see where
his toe hab turn up 'e sile, and shape it he own way — no
dibble dere, sah.”

Thus saying, Jaap rode on, my sister and myself doing
the same, pursuing the discourse that had thus accidentally
arisen among us.

“Is it not odd, brother, that strangers should have this
itching to alter the name of my grandmother's place?” said
Kate, after we had parted from the black. “It is a homely
name, certainly; but it has been used, now, a good deat
more than a century, and time, at least, should entitle it to
be let alone.”

“Ay, my dear; but you are not yet aware of the desires,
and longings, and efforts, and ambition of a `little
learning.' I have seen enough, in my short career, to know
there is a spirit up among us, that calls itself by the pretending
title of the `spirit of improvement,' which is likely
to overturn more important things than the name of our
poor Neck. It is a spirit that assumes the respectable character
of a love of liberty; and under that mask, it gives
play to malice, envy, covetousness, rapacity, and all the
lowest passions of our nature. Among other things, it takes
the provincial pretence of a mock-refinement, and flatters
an elegance of thought that is easiest attained by those who
have no perceptions of anything truly elevated, by substituting
squeamishness and affectations for the simplicity of
nature, and a good tone of manners.”