VI.
There was one little uncelestial trait, which, in the opinion
of some, may mar the romantic merits of the gentlemanly
Pierre Glendinning. He always had an excellent appetite, and
especially for his breakfast. But when we consider that though
Pierre's hands were small, and his ruffles white, yet his arm
was by no means dainty, and his complexion inclined to brown;
and that he generally rose with the sun, and could not sleep
without riding his twenty, or walking his twelve miles a day,
or felling a fair-sized hemlock in the forest, or boxing, or fencing,
or boating, or performing some other gymnastical feat;
when we consider these athletic habitudes of Pierre, and the
great fullness of brawn and muscle they built round about him;
all of which manly brawn and muscle, three times a day loudly
clamored for attention; we shall very soon perceive that to
have a bountiful appetite, was not only no vulgar reproach, but
a right royal grace and honor to Pierre; attesting him a man
and a gentleman; for a thoroughly developed gentleman is
always robust and healthy; and Robustness and Health are
great trencher-men.
So when Pierre and his mother descended to breakfast, and
Pierre had scrupulously seen her supplied with whatever little
things were convenient to her; and had twice or thrice ordered
the respectable and immemorial Dates, the servitor, to adjust
and re-adjust the window-sashes, so that no unkind current of
air should take undue liberties with his mother's neck; after
seeing to all this, but in a very quiet and inconspicuous way;
and also after directing the unruffled Dates, to swing out, horizontally
into a particular light, a fine joyous painting, in the
good-fellow, Flemish style (which painting was so attached to
the wall as to be capable of that mode of adjusting), and furthermore
after darting from where he sat a few invigorating
glances over the river-meadows to the blue mountains beyond;
Pierre made a masonic sort of mysterious motion to the excellent
Dates, who in automaton obedience thereto, brought from
a certain agreeable little side-stand, a very prominent-looking
cold pasty; which, on careful inspection with the knife, proved
to be the embossed savory nest of a few uncommonly tender
pigeons of Pierre's own shooting.
“Sister Mary,” said he, lifting on his silver trident one of the
choicest of the many fine pigeon morsels; “Sister Mary,” said
he, “in shooting these pigeons, I was very careful to bring
down one in such a manner that the breast is entirely unmarred.
It was intended for you! and here it is. Now Sergeant
Dates, help hither your mistress' plate. No?—nothing but the
crumbs of French rolls, and a few peeps into a coffee-cup—is
that a breakfast for the daughter of yonder bold General?”—
pointing to a full-length of his gold-laced grandfather on the
opposite wall. “Well, pitiable is my case when I have to
breakfast for two. Dates!”
“Sir.”
“Remove that toast-rack, Dates; and this plate of tongue,
and bring the rolls nearer, and wheel the stand farther off,
good Dates.”
Having thus made generous room for himself, Pierre commenced
operations, interrupting his mouthfuls by many sallies
of mirthfulness.
“You seem to be in prodigious fine spirits this morning,
brother Pierre,” said his mother.
“Yes, very tolerable; at least I can't say, that I am low-spirited
exactly, sister Mary;—Dates, my fine fellow, bring me
three bowls of milk.”
“One bowl, sir, you mean,” said Dates, gravely and imperturbably.
As the servitor left the room, Mrs. Glendinning spoke. “My
dear Pierre, how often have I begged you never to permit your
hilariousness to betray you into overstepping the exact line of
propriety in your intercourse with servants. Dates' look was
a respectful reproof to you just now. You must not call
Dates, My fine fellow. He is a fine fellow, a very fine fellow,
indeed; but there is no need of telling him so at my table. It
is very easy to be entirely kind and pleasant to servants, without
the least touch of any shade of transient good-fellowship
with them.”
“Well, sister, no doubt you are altogether right; after this I
shall drop the fine, and call Dates nothing but fellow;—Fellow,
come here!—how will that answer?”
“Not at all, Pierre—but you are a Romeo, you know, and
so for the present I pass over your nonsense.”
“Romeo! oh, no. I am far from being Romeo—” sighed
Pierre. “I laugh, but he cried; poor Romeo! alas Romeo!
woe is me, Romeo! he came to a very deplorable end, did
Romeo, sister Mary.”
“It was his own fault though.”
“Poor Romeo!”
“He was disobedient to his parents.”
“Alas Romeo!”
“He married against their particular wishes.”
“Woe is me, Romeo!”
“But you, Pierre, are going to be married before long, I
trust, not to a Capulet, but to one of our own Montagues; and
so Romeo's evil fortune will hardly be yours. You will be
happy.”
“The more miserable Romeo!”
“Don't be so ridiculous, brother Pierre; so you are going to
take Lucy that long ride among the hills this morning? She
is a sweet girl; a most lovely girl.”
“Yes, that is rather my opinion, sister Mary.—By heavens,
mother, the five zones hold not such another! She is—yes—
though I say it—Dates!—he's a precious long time getting
that milk!”
“Let him stay.—Don't be a milk-sop, Pierre!”
“Ha! my sister is a little satirical this morning. I comprehend.”
“Never rave, Pierre; and never rant. Your father never
did either; nor is it written of Socrates; and both were very
wise men. Your father was profoundly in love—that I know
to my certain knowledge—but I never heard him rant about it.
He was always exceedingly gentlemanly: and gentlemen never
rant. Milk-sops and Muggletonians rant, but gentlemen never.”
“Thank you, sister.—There, put it down, Dates; are the
horses ready?”
“Just driving round, sir, I believe.”
“Why, Pierre,” said his mother, glancing out at the window,
“are you going to Santa Fe De Bogota with that enormous old
phaeton;—what do you take that Juggernaut out for?”
“Humor, sister, humor; I like it because it's old-fashioned,
and because the seat is such a wide sofa of a seat, and finally
because a young lady by the name of Lucy Tartan cherishes a
high regard for it. She vows she would like to be married in
it.”
“Well, Pierre, all I have to say, is, be sure that Christopher
puts the coach-hammer and nails, and plenty of cords and
screws into the box. And you had better let him follow you in
one of the farm wagons, with a spare axle and some boards.”
“No fear, sister; no fear;—I shall take the best of care of
the old phaeton. The quaint old arms on the panel, always
remind me who it was that first rode in it.”
“I am glad you have that memory, brother Pierre.”
“And who it was that next rode in it.”
“Bless you!—God bless you, my dear son!—always think
of him and you can never err; yes, always think of your dear
perfect father, Pierre.”
“Well, kiss me now, dear sister, for I must go.”
“There; this is my cheek, and the other is Lucy's; though
now that I look at them both, I think that hers is getting to
be the most blooming; sweeter dews fall on that one, I suppose.”
Pierre laughed, and ran out of the room, for old Christopher
was getting impatient. His mother went to the window and
stood there.
“A noble boy, and docile”—she murmured—“he has all the
frolicsomeness of youth, with little of its giddiness. And he
does not grow vain-glorious in sophomorean wisdom. I thank
heaven I sent him not to college. A noble boy, and docile. A
fine, proud, loving, docile, vigorous boy. Pray God, he never
becomes otherwise to me. His little wife, that is to be, will not
estrange him from me; for she too is docile,—beautiful, and
reverential, and most docile. Seldom yet have I known such
blue eyes as hers, that were not docile, and would not follow a
bold black one, as two meek blue-ribboned ewes, follow their
martial leader. How glad am I that Pierre loves her so, and
not some dark-eyed haughtiness, with whom I could never live
in peace; but who would be ever setting her young married
state before my elderly widowed one, and claiming all the homage
of my dear boy—the fine, proud, loving, docile, vigorous
boy!—the lofty-minded, well-born, noble boy; and with such
sweet docilities! See his hair! He does in truth illustrate
that fine saying of his father's, that as the noblest colts, in three
points—abundant hair, swelling chest, and sweet docility—
should resemble a fine woman, so should a noble youth. Well,
good-bye, Pierre, and a merry morning to ye!”
So saying she crossed the room, and—resting in a corner—
her glad proud eye met the old General's baton, which the day
before in one of his frolic moods Pierre had taken from its accustomed
place in the pictured-bannered hall. She lifted it, and
musingly swayed it to and fro; then paused, and staff-wise
rested with it in her hand. Her stately beauty had ever somewhat
martial in it; and now she looked the daughter of a
General, as she was; for Pierre's was a double revolutionary
descent. On both sides he sprung from heroes.
“This is his inheritance—this symbol of command! and I
swell out to think it. Yet but just now I fondled the conceit
that Pierre was so sweetly docile! Here sure is a most strange
inconsistency! For is sweet docility a general's badge? and is
this baton but a distaff then?—Here's something widely wrong.
Now I almost wish him otherwise than sweet and docile to me,
seeing that it must be hard for man to be an uncompromising
hero and a commander among his race, and yet never ruffle
any domestic brow. Pray heaven he show his heroicness in
some smooth way of favoring fortune, not be called out to be a
hero of some dark hope forlorn;—of some dark hope forlorn,
whose cruelness makes a savage of a man. Give him, O God,
regardful gales! Fan him with unwavering prosperities! So
shall he remain all docility to me, and yet prove a haughty
hero to the world!”
