1. CHAPTER I.
Remote from towns he ran his godly race.
—Goldsmith.
“Macknight on the Epistles, — that's the name of
the book?”
“Yes, sir, if you please. I am desirous of consulting it
with a view —”
“Well, this way, Mr. Jacobs. Here's the librarian. Mr.
Stillingfleet, let me introduce my friend, the Reverend Mr.
Jacobs, of West Weathersfield.”
“I am proud to make your acquaintance, sir,” said Mr.
Jacobs, taking the librarian's hand with an air of diffident
veneration.
“Mr. Jacobs wishes to consult Mackwright on the Epistles.”
“Macknight, if you please, Dr. Steele.”
“O, Macknight. Will you be so kind as to let him have
the use of it in my name?”
“If you will go with Mr. Rubens, sir,” said the librarian,
“he will show you the book.”
“Thank you, sir,” replied Mr. Jacobs, to whom the words
were addressed; and he followed the assistant among the
alcoves in a timid, tiptoe progress, for, to him, the very air he
breathed seemed redolent of learning, and the dust beneath
his feet consecrated to science.
Dr. Steele remained behind, conversing with the librarian.
“My friend has something of the ancient apostolic simplicity
hanging about him still. He looks with as much awe
at Harvard College library as I did myself forty-five years ago,
when I came down from Steuben to join the freshman class.”
“So you came from Steuben! Did not old John Morton
come from the same place?”
“To be sure he did. He was the glory of the town. He
pulled down the old clapboard meeting house that his father
used to preach in, and built a new one for him: besides giving
a start in business to half the young men of the village.”
“Do you see that undergraduate at the end of the hall,
standing by the last alcove, reading?”
“Yes; what about him? He seems a hardy, good-looking
young fellow enough.”
“He is John Morton's son.”
“Is it possible? I remember him when he was a child,
but have not seen him for these ten years. After his father's
death, his mother took him to Europe, to be educated; but
she never came back; she died in Paris.”
“He is Mr. Morton's only child — is he not?”
“Yes; his first wife had no children; and after he had
buried her, — which, by the way, I believe was the happiest
hour of his life, — he married a very different sort of person,
Margaret Vassall, this boy's mother.”
“What, one of the old Vassall race?”
“Exactly; and, I suppose, the last survivor. I used to
know her. She was a handsome woman, and, bating her
family pride, altogether a very fine character. She managed
her husband admirably.”
“Why, what need had John Morton of being managed?”
“O, Morton was a noble old gentleman, a merchant of the
old school, and generous as the day; but he had his faults.
He made nothing of his three bottles of Madeira at dinner,
and besides — Ah, Mr. Jacobs, so you have found Macknight.”
“Yes, sir,” said Mr. Jacobs, coming up, “I have the volumes.”
“See that young man, yonder. That's the son of your old
friend, Mr. Morton.”
“Really! upon my word! Ah! Mr. Morton was a friend
to me, sir — a very kind friend.”
And, in the simplicity of his heart, Mr. Jacobs glided up
to the student, and blandly accosted him.
“How do you do, young gentleman? I knew your worthy
father. I knew him well. I have often sat at his hospitable
board on anniversary week.”
Thus addressed, Vassall Morton looked up from his book,
— it was Froissart's Chronicle, — inclined his head in acknowledgment,
and waited to hear more.
“Ahem!” coughed Mr. Jacobs, a little embarrassed: “your
father was a most worthy and estimable gentleman: a true
friend of the feeble and destitute. Ahem! — what class are
you in, Mr. Morton?”
“The junior class,” said the young man, a suppressed smile
flickering at the corner of his mouth.
“Ahem! I hope, sir, that, like your father, you will long
live to be an honor to your native town.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“I wish you good morning.”
“Good morning, sir,” said Morton, divided between an inclination
to smile at the odd, humble little figure before him,
and an unwillingness to wound the other's feelings.
“Are you ready to go, Mr. Jacobs?” said Dr. Steele.
“If you please, sir, we will now take our departure;” —
gathering the four volumes of Macknight on the Epistles
under his arm; — “Good morning, Mr. Stillingfleet; good
morning, Mr. Rubens. I am indebted to your kindness, gentlemen
— ahem!”
“This is the way out, Mr. Jacobs,” said Steele to his diffident
friend from West Weathersfield, who, in his embarrassment,
was going out at the wrong door.
“I beg your pardon, sir — ahem!” replied Mr. Jacobs,
with a bashful smile. And Dr. Steele, pointing to the true
exit, ushered his rustic and reverend protégé from the sacred
precinct of learning.
