CHAPTER XXII.

  “Ships are but boards, sailors but men: there be land-rats, and
  water-rats, water-thieves, and land-thieves; I mean pirates; and
  then, there is the peril of waters, winds and rocks: the man is,
  notwithstanding, sufficient;—three thousand ducats;—I think I may
  take his bond.”—Shylock.

I saw Grace, and Lucy, and Rupert, and good Mr. Hardinge, every day; but I could not find time to call on the Mertons, until near the close of a week. I then paid them a visit, and found them glad to see me, but not at all in want of my attentions to make them comfortable. The Major had exhibited his claims to the British consul, who happened to be a native Manhattanese, and was well-connected, a circumstance that then gave him an influence in society, that his commission alone would not have conferred. Colonel Barclay, for so was this gentleman called, had taken the Mertons by the hand, as a matter of course; and his example being followed by others, I found that they were already in the best circle of the place. Emily mentioned to me the names of several of those with whom she had exchanged visits; and I knew at once, through Lucy's and Grace's conversation, and from my own general knowledge of the traditions of the colony and state, that they were among the leading people of the land, socially if not politically; a class altogether above any with whom I had myself ever associated. Now, I knew that the master of a merchantman, whatever might be his standing with his owner, or consignee, or the credit he had gained among his fellows, was not likely to get admission into this set; and there was the comfortable prospect before me, of having my own sister and the two other girls I admired most and loved best in the world—next to Grace, of course—visiting round in houses, of which the doors were shut against myself. This is always unpleasant, but in my case it turned out to be more.

When I told Emily that Grace and Lucy were in town, and intended coming to see her that very morning, I thought she manifested less curiosity than would have been the case a month before.

“Is Miss Hardinge a relative of Mr. Rupert Hardinge, the gentleman to whom I was introduced at dinner, yesterday,” she demanded, after expressing the pleasure it would give her to see the ladies.

I knew that Rupert had dined out the day before, and, there being no one else of the same name, I answered in the affirmative.

“He is the son of a respectable clergyman, and of very good connections, I hear.”

“The Hardinges are so considered among us; both Rupert's father and grandfather were clergymen, and his great-grandfather was a seaman—I trust you will think none the worse of him, for that.”

“A sailor! I had supposed, from what some of those present said—that is, I did not know it.”

“Perhaps they told you that his great-grandfather was a British officer?”

Emily coloured, and then she laughed faintly; admitting, however, that I had guessed right.

“Well, all this was true,” I added, “though he was a sailor. Old Captain Hardinge—or Commodore Hardinge, as he used to be called, for he once commanded a squadron—was in the English navy.”

“Oh! that sort of a sailor!”—cried Emily, quickly—“I did not know that it was usual to call gentlemen in the navy, seamen.”

“They would make a poor figure if they were not, Miss Merton—you might as well say that a judge is no lawyer.”

This was enough, however, to satisfy me that Miss Merton no longer considered the master of the Crisis the first man in the world.

A ring announced the arrival of the two girls. They were shown up, and I soon had the satisfaction of seeing these three charming young women together. Emily received her two guests very courteously, and was frank—nay warm—in the expression of her gratitude for all that I had done for herself and her father. She even went back so far as to speak of the occurrence in the Park, at London, and was gracious enough to declare that she and her parents owed their lives to my interference. All this gave her listeners great pleasure, for I believe neither ever tired of hearing my praises. After this opening, the conversation turned on New York, its gaieties, and the different persons known to them mutually. I saw that the two girls were struck with the set Miss Merton was in, which was a shade superior even to that of Mrs. Bradfort's, though the fusion which usually accompanies that sort of thing, brought portions of each circle within the knowledge of the other. As the persons named were utter strangers to me, I had nothing to say, and sat listening in silence. The opportunity was improved by comparing the girls with each other.

In delicacy of appearance, Grace and Lucy each had the advantage of the English beauty. Their hands and feet were smaller, their waists finer, and their tournures, generally, I thought the most pleasing. Emily had the advantage in complexion, though her colour had less fineness and delicacy. Perhaps her teeth were the most brilliant; though Grace and Lucy, particularly the latter, had very fine teeth. The English girl's shoulders and bust, generally, would have been more admired than those of most American—particularly than most New York—girls; but it was not possible to surpass those of Lucy. As a whole, Emily's countenance had the most spirit, Lucy's the most finesse and feeling. I make no comparison with the expression of Grace's countenance, which was altogether too remarkable for its intellectual character, to be included in anything like a national classification. I remember I thought, as they sat there in a row conversing frankly and cheerfully together, Lucy the handsomest, in her pretty neat morning-dress; while I had my doubts whether Emily would not have extorted the most applause in a ball-room. This distinction is mentioned, because I believe it national.

The visit lasted an hour; for I had expressed a wish to all parties that they would become acquainted, and the girls seemed mutually pleased. As they chatted, I listened to the tones of their voices, and fancied, on the whole, that Emily had slightly the advantage in intonation and accent; though it was scarcely perceptible, and it was an advantage that was attended by a slight sacrifice of the charm of natural utterance. She was a little more artificial in this respect than her companions, and insomuch less pleasing though, had the comparison been made with the Manhattan style of the present day, the odds would have been immensely in her favour. In 1802, however, some attention was still paid to the utterance, tones of voice, and manner of speaking of young ladies. The want of it all, just now, is the besetting vice of the whole of our later instruction of the sex; it being almost as rare a thing now-a-days, to find a young American girl who speaks her own language gracefully, as it is to find one who is not of pleasing person.

When the young ladies parted, it was with an understanding that they were soon to meet again. I shook hands with Emily, English fashion, and took my leave at the same time.

“Well, Miles,” said Grace, as soon as we were in the street, “you have certainly been of service to a very charming young woman—I like her, excessively.”

“And you, Lucy—I hope you agree with Grace, in thinking my friend, Emily Merton, a charming young woman.”

Lucy did not speak as frankly, or as decidedly as Grace, so far as manner was concerned; though she coincided in words.

“I am of the same opinion,” she said, in a tone that was far less cheerful than her usually very cheerful manner. “She is one of the loveliest creatures I ever saw—and it is no wonder—”

“What is no wonder, dear?” asked Grace, observing that her friend hesitated to proceed.

“Oh! I was about to say something silly, and had better not finish the speech. But, what a finished manner Miss Merton possesses;—do you not think so, Grace?”

“I wish she had a little less of it, dear; that is precisely what I should find fault with in her deportment. It is manner; and, though we all must have some, it strikes me it ought not to be seen. I think all the Europeans we saw in town, last winter, Lucy, had more or less of this manner.”

“I dare say it would seem so to us; notwithstanding, it may be very agreeable to those who are used to it—a thing to miss, when one gets much accustomed to it.”

As Lucy made this remark, I detected a furtive and timid glance at myself. I was mystified at the time, and was actually so silly as to think the dear girl was talking at me, and to feel a little resentment. I fancied she wished to say, “There, Master Miles, you have been in London, and on a desert island in the South Seas—the very extremes of human habits—and have got to be so sophisticated, so very un-Clawbonnyish, as to feel the necessity of a manner, in the young ladies with whom you associate.” The notion nettled me to a degree that induced me to pretend duty, and to hurry down to the ship. Whom should I meet, in Rector Street, but Mr. Hardinge, who had been across to the Hudson in search of me.

“Come hither, Miles,” said the excellent old man, “I wish to converse with you seriously.”

As Lucy was uppermost in my thoughts at the moment, I said to myself—“What can the dear old gentleman have to say, now?”

“I hear from all quarters the best accounts of you, my dear boy,” Mr. Hardinge continued, “and I am told you make a very superior seaman. It is a feather in your cap, indeed, to have commanded an Indiaman a twelve-month before you are of age. I have been conversing with my old friend John Murray, of the house of John Murray and Sons, one of the very best merchants in America, and he says 'push the boy ahead, when you find the right stuff in him. Get him a ship of his own, and that will put him on the true track. Teach him early to have an eye to his own interests, and it will make a man of him, at once.' I have thought the matter over, have had a vessel in my eye, for the last month, and will purchase her at once, if you like the plan.”

“But, have I money enough for such a thing, my dear sir—after having sailed in the John, and the Tigris, and the Crisis, I should not like to take up with any of your B's, No. 2.”

“You have forgotten to mention the 'Pretty Poll,' Miles,” said the divine, smiling. “Be under no fear, however, for your dignity; the vessel I have in treaty, is all you could wish, they tell me, having made but one voyage, and is sold on account of the death of her owner. As for money, you will remember I have thirteen thousand dollars of your income invested in stocks, and stocks that cost but ten. The peace has brought everything up, and you are making money, right and left. How have your own pay and private venture turned out?”

“Perfectly well, sir. I am near three thousand dollars in pocket, and shall have no need to call on you, for my personal wants. Then I have my prize-money to touch. Even Neb, wages and prize-money, brings me nine hundred dollars. With your permission, sir, I should like to give the fellow his freedom.”

“Wait till you are of age, Miles, and then you can do as you please. I hold four thousand dollars of your invested money, which has been paid in, and I have placed it in stocks. Altogether, I find we can muster, in solid cash, more than twenty thousand dollars, while the price of the ship, as she stands, almost ready for sea, is only fifteen. Now, go and look at the vessel; if you like her, I will close the bargain at once.”

“But, my dear Mr. Hardinge, do you think yourself exactly qualified to judge of the value of a ship?”

“Poh! poh! don't imagine I am so conceited as to purchase on my own knowledge. I have taken some of the very best advice of the city. There is John Murray, to begin with—a great ship-holder, himself—and Archibald Gracie, and William Bayard—all capital judges, have taken an interest in the affair. Three others of my friends have walked round to look at the vessel, and all approve—not a dissenting voice.”

“May I ask, sir, who have seen her, besides the gentlemen you have named? they, I admit, are, indeed, good judges.”

“Why?—why—yes—do you happen to know anything of Dr. Benjamin Moore, now, Miles?”

“Never heard of him, sir, in my life; but a physician can be no great judge of a ship.”

“No more of a physician than yourself, boy—Dr. Benjamin Moore, the gentleman we elected Bishop, while you were absent—”

“Oh! he you wished to toast, instead of Miss Peggy Perott—” cried I, smiling. “Well, what does the Bishop think of her—if he approve, she must be orthodox.”

“He says she is the handsomest vessel he ever laid eyes on, Miles; and let me tell you, the favourable opinion of so good a man as Dr. Moore, is of value, even though it be about a ship.”

I could not avoid laughing, and I dare say most of the readers will also, at this touch of simplicity; and yet, why should not a Bishop know as much of ships, as a set of ignoramuses who never read a theological book in their lives, some of them not even the Bible, should know about Bishops? The circumstance was not a tittle more absurd than many that are occurring daily before our eyes, and to which, purely from habit, we submit, very much as a matter of course.

“Well, sir,” I replied, as soon as I could, “I will look at the ship, get her character, and give you an answer at once. I like the idea, for it is pleasant to be one's own master.”

In that day, $15,000 would buy a very excellent ship, as ships went. The vessel I was taken to see, was coppered and copper-fastened, butt-bolted, and she measured just five hundred tons. She had a great reputation as a sailer, and what was thought a good deal of in 1802, was Philadelphia built. She had been one voyage to China, and was little more than a year old, or the best possible age for a vessel. Her name was the “Dawn,” and she carried an “Aurora” for her figure-head. Whether she were, or were not inclined to Puseyism, I never could ascertain, although I can affirm she had the services of the Protestant Episcopal Catholic Church read on board her afterwards, on more than one occasion.

The result of my examination and inquiries was favourable, and, by the end of the week, the Dawn was purchased. The owners of the Crisis were pleased to express their regrets, for they had intended that I should continue in the command of their vessel, but no one could object to a man's wishing to sail in his own employment. I made this important acquisition, at what was probably the most auspicious moment of American navigation. It is a proof of this, that, the very day I was put in possession of the ship, good freights were offered to no less than four different parts of the world. I had my choice between Holland, France, England, and China. After consulting with my guardian, I accepted that to France, which not only paid the best, but I was desirous of seeing more of the world than had yet fallen to my share. I could make a voyage to Bordeaux and back in five months, and by the end of that time I should be of age, and consequently my own master. As I intended to have great doings at Clawbonny on that occasion, I thought it might be well not to go too far from home. Accordingly, after shipping Talcott and the Philadelphian, whose name was Walton, for my mates, we began to take in cargo, as soon as possible.

In the meantime, I bethought me of a visit to the paternal home. It was a season of the year, when most people, who were anybodies, left town, and the villas along the shores of the Hudson had long been occupied. Mr. Hardinge, too, pined for the country and his flock. The girls had had enough of town, which was getting to be very dull, and everybody, Rupert excepted, seemed anxious to go up the river. I had invited the Mertons to pass part of the summer at the farm, moreover, and it was time the invitation should be renewed, for the Major's physicians had advised him to choose some cooler residence than the streets of a hot close town could furnish, during the summer months. Emily had been so much engrossed with the set into which she had fallen, since her landing, and which it was easy for me to see was altogether superior to that in which she had lived at home, that I was surprised at the readiness with which she urged her father to redeem his promise.

“Mr. Hardinge tells me, sir, that Clawbonny is really a pretty spot,” she said, “and the country around it is thought to be very healthy. You cannot get answers from home (she meant England) for several months, and I know Captain Wallingford will be happy to receive us. Besides, we are pledged to accept this additional favour from him.”

I thought Major Merton felt some of my own surprise at Emily's earnestness and manner, but his resistance was very feeble. The old gentleman's health, indeed, was pretty thoroughly undermined, and I began to have serious doubts of his living even to return to Europe. He had some relatives in Boston, and had opened a correspondence with them, and I had thought, more than once, of the expediency of apprising them of his situation. At present however nothing better could be done than to get him into the country.

Having made all the arrangements with the others, I went to persuade Rupert to be of the party, for I thought it would make both Grace and Lucy so much the happier.

“Miles, my dear fellow,” said the young student, gaping, “Clawbonny is certainly a capitalish place, but, you will admit it is somewhat stupid after New York. My good kinswoman, Mrs. Bradfort, has taken such a fancy to us all, and has made me so comfortable—would you believe it, boy, she has actually given me six hundred a year, for the last two years, besides making Lucy presents fit for a queen. A sterling woman is she, this cousin Margaret of ours!”

I heard this, truly, not without surprise; for, in settling with my owners, I found Rupert had drawn every cent to which he was entitled, under the orders I had left when I last went to sea.

As Mrs. Bradfort was more than at her ease, however, had no nearer relative than Mr. Hardinge, and was much attached to the family, I had no difficulty in believing it true, so far as the lady's liberality was concerned. I heartily wished Rupert had possessed more self-respect; but he was, as he was!

“I am sorry you cannot go with us,” I answered, “for I counted on you to help amuse the Mertons—”

“The Mertons!—Why, surely, they are not going to pass the summer at Clawbonny!”

“They quit town with us, to-morrow. Why should not the Mertons pass the summer at Clawbonny?”

“Why, Miles, my dear boy, you know how it is with the world—how it is with these English, in particular. They think everything of rank, you know, and are devotees of style and appearance, and all that sort of thing, you know, as no one understands better than myself; for I pass most of my time in the English set, you know.”

I did not then understand what had come over Rupert, though it is all plain enough to me, now. He had, truly enough, got into what was then called the English set. Now, there is no question, that, so far as the natives, themselves, were concerned, this was as good a set as ever existed in his country; and, it is also beyond all cavil, that many respectable English persons, of both sexes, were occasionally found in it; but, it had this great defect:—every Englishman who wore a good coat, and had any of the slang of society, made his way into the outskirts, at least, of this set; and Rupert, whose own position was not yet thoroughly confirmed, had fallen a great deal into the association of these accidental comers and goers. They talked large, drank deep, and had a lofty disdain for everything in the country, though it was very certain they were just then in much better company where they were, than they had ever been at home. Like most tyroes, Rupert fancied these blustering gentry persons to imitate; and, as they seldom conversed ten minutes without having something to say of my Lord A——or Sir John B——, persons they had read of, or seen in the streets, he was weak enough to imagine they knew all about the dignitaries of the British Empire. As Rupert was really a gentleman, and had good manners naturally, it was a grievous thing to see him fashioning himself anew, as it might be, on such very questionable models,

“Clawbonny is not a stylish place, I am ready to allow,” I answered, after a moment of hesitation; “still it is respectable. There is a good farm, a valuable mill, and a good, old, comfortable, straggling, stone house.”

“Very true, Miles, my dear fellow, and all as dear to me, you know, as the apple of my eye—but farmish—young ladies like the good things that comes from farms, but do not admire the homeliness of the residence. I speak of young English ladies, in particular. Now, you see, Major Merton is a field-officer, and that is having good rank in a respectable profession, you know—I suppose you understand, Miles, that the king puts most of his sons into the army, or navy—all this makes a difference, you understand?”

“I understand nothing about it; what is it to me where the king of England puts his sons?”

“I wish, my dear Miles, if the truth must be said, that you and I had been a little less boyish, when we were boys, than happened to be the case. It would have been all the better for us both.”

“Well, I wish no such thing. A boy should be a boy, and a man a man. I am content to have been a boy, while I was a boy. It is a fault in this country, that boys fancy themselves men too soon.”

“Ah! my dear fellow, you will not, or do not understand me. What I mean is, that we were both precipitate in the choice of a profession—I retired in time, but you persevere; that is all.”

“You did retire in season, my lad, if truth is what you are after; for, had you staid a hundred years on board ship, you never would have made a sailor.”

When I said this, I fancied I had uttered a pretty severe thing. Rupert took it so coolly, however, as to satisfy me at once, that he thought differently on the subject.

“Clearly, it is not my vocation. Nature intended me for something better, I trust, and I mistook a boyish inclination for a taste. A little experience taught me better, and I am now where I feel I ought to be. I wish, Miles, you had come to the study of the law, at the time you went to sea. You would have been, by this time, at the bar, and would have had a definite position in society.”

“I am very glad I did not. What the deuce should I have done as a lawyer—or what advantage would it have been to me, to be admitted to the bar?”

“Advantage!—Why, my dear fellow, every advantage in the world. You know how it is, in this country, I suppose, in the way of society, my dear Miles?”

“Not I—and, by the little I glean from the manner you sheer about in your discourse, I wish to know nothing. Do young men study law merely to be genteel?”

“Do not despise knowledge, my boy; it is of use, even in trifles. Now, in this country, you know, we have very few men of mere leisure—heirs of estates, to live on their incomes, as is done in Europe; but, nine-tenths of us must follow professions, of which there are only half-a-dozen suitable for a gentleman. The army and navy are nothing, you know; two or three regiments scattered about in the woods, and half-a-dozen vessels. After these, there remain the three learned professions, divinity, law and physic. In our family, divinity has run out, I fear. As for physic, 'throw physic to the dogs,' as Miss Merton says—”

“Who?” I exclaimed, in surprise. “'Throw physic to the dogs'—why that is Shakspeare, man!”

“I know it, and it is Miss Emily Merlon's, too. You have made us acquainted with a charming creature, at least, Miles, by this going to sea. Her notions on such subjects are as accurate as a sun-dial.”

“And, has Miss Emily Merton ever conversed with you, on the subject of my profession, Rupert?”

“Indeed, she has; and regretted it, again and again. You know as well as I do, Miles, to be a sailor, other than in a navy, is not a genteel profession!”

I broke out into a fit of laughter, at this remark. It struck me as infinitely droll, and as somewhat silly. I knew my precise position in society, perfectly; had none of the silly swaggering about personal merit, and of “one man's being as good as another,” that has since got into such general use among us; and understood perfectly the useful and unavoidable classifications that take place in all civilized communities, and which, while they are attended by certain disadvantages as exceptions, produce great benefits as a whole, and was not disposed at all to exaggerate my claims, or to deny my deficiencies. But, the idea of attaching any considerations of gentility to my noble, manly, daring profession, sounded so absurd, I could not avoid laughing. In a few moments, however, I became grave.

“Harkee, Rupert,” said I: “I trust Miss Merton does not think I endeavoured to mislead her as to my true position, or to make her think I was a greater personage than I truly am?”

“I'll not answer for that. When we were first acquainted, I found she had certain notions about Clawbonny, and your estate, and all that, which were rather English, you know. Now, in England an estate gives a man a certain consideration, whereas land is so plenty with us, that we think nothing of the man who happens to own a little of it. Stock, in America, as it is so much nearer ready-money, is a better thing than land, you know.”

How true was this, even ten years since; how false is it to-day! The proprietor of tens of thousands of acres, was, indeed, under the paper-money regime, a less important man than the owner of a handful of scrip, which has had all its value squeezed out of it, little by little. That was truly the age when the representative of property was of far more importance than the property itself; and all because the country existed in a fever, that set everything in motion. We shall see just such times, again, I fear.

“But what had Emily Merton to do with all this?”

“Miss Merton? Oh! she is English, you know, and felt as English persons always do, at the sound of acres. I set it all right, however, and you need be under no concern.”

“The devil you did! And, pray, in what manner was this done? How was the matter set right?”

Rupert took the segar from his mouth, suffered the smoke to issue, by a small, deliberate jet, cocking his nose up at the same time as if observing the stars, and then deigned to give me an answer. Your smokers have such a disdainful, ultra-philosophical manner, sometimes!

“Why, just in this way, my fine fellow. I told her Clawbonny was a farm, and not an estate, you know; that did a good deal, of itself. Then, I entered into an explanation of the consideration of farmers in this country, you know, and made it all as plain as A B C. She is a quick girl, is Emily, and takes a thing remarkably soon.”

“Did Miss Merton say anything to induce you to suppose she thought the less of me, for these explanations.”

“Of course not—she values you, amazingly—quite worships you, as a sailor—thinks you a sort of merchant-captain Nelson, or Blake, or Truxtun, and all that sort of thing. All young ladies, however, are exceedingly particular about professions, I suppose you know, Miles, as well as I do myself.”

“What, Lucy, Rupert?—Do you imagine Lucy cares a straw about my not being a lawyer, for instance?”

“Do I?—out of all question. Don't you remember how the girls wept—Grace as well as Lucy—when we went to sea, boy. It was all on account of the ungentility of the profession, if a fellow can use such a word.”

I did not believe this, for I knew Grace better, to say the least; and thought I understood Lucy sufficiently, at that time, to know she wept because she was sorry to see me go away. Still, Lucy had grown from a very young girl, since I sailed in the Crisis, into a young woman, and might view things differently, now, from what she had done three years before. I had not time, however, for further discussion at that moment, and I cut the matter short.

“Well, Rupert, what am I to expect?” I asked; “Clawbonny, or no Clawbonny?”

“Why, now you say the Mertons are to be of the party I suppose I shall have to go; it would be inhospitable else. I do wish, Miles, you would manage to establish visiting relations with some of the families on the other side of the river. There are plenty of respectable people within a few hours' sail of Clawbonny.”

“My father, and my grandfather, and my great-grand-father, managed, as you call it, to get along, for the last hundred years, well enough on the west side; and, although we are not quite as genteel as the east, we will do well enough. The Wallingford sails early in the morning, to save the tide; and I hope your lordship will turn out in season, and not keep us waiting. If you do, I shall be ungenteel enough to leave you behind.”

I left Rupert with a feeling in which disgust and anger were blended. I wish to be understood, more particularly as I know I am writing for a stiff-necked generation. I never was guilty of the weakness of decrying a thing because I did not happen to possess it myself. I knew my own place in the social scale perfectly; nor was I, as I have just said, in the least inclined to fancy that one man was as good as another. I knew very well that this was not true, either in nature or in the social relations; in political axioms, any more than in political truths. At the same time, I did not believe nature had created men unequal, in the order of primogeniture from male to male. Keeping in view all the facts, I was perfectly disposed to admit that habits, education, association, and sometimes chance and caprice, drew distinctions that produced great benefits, as a whole; in some small degree qualified, perhaps, by cases of individual injustice. This last exception, however, being applicable to all things human, it had no influence on my opinions, which were sound and healthful on all these points; practical, common-sense-like, and in conformity with the decisions of the world from the time of Moses down to our own, or, I dare say, of Adam himself, if the truth could be known; and, as I have said more than once in these rambling memoir's, I was not disposed to take a false view of my own social position. I belonged, at most, to the class of small proprietors, as they existed in the last century, and filled a very useful and respectable niche between the yeoman and gentleman, considering the last strictly in reference to the upper class of that day. Now, it struck me that Emily Merton, with her English notions, might very well draw the distinctions Rupert had mentioned; nor am I conscious of having cared much about it, though she did. If I were a less important person on terra firma, with all the usages and notions of ordinary society producing their influence, than I had been when in command of the Crisis, in the centre of the Pacific, so was Miss Merton a less important young lady, in the midst of the beauty of New York, than she had been in the isolation of Marble Land. This I could feel very distinctly. But Lucy's supposed defection did more than annoy me. I felt humbled, mortified, grieved. I had always known that Lucy was better connected than I was myself, and I had ever given Rupert and her the benefit of this advantage, as some offset to my own and Grace's larger means; but it had never struck me that either the brother or sister would be disposed to look down upon us in consequence. The world is everywhere—and America, on account of its social vicissitudes, more than most other countries—constantly exhibiting pictures of the struggles between fallen consequence and rising wealth. The last may, and does have the best of it, in the mere physical part of the strife; but in the more moral, if such a word can be used, the quiet ascendency of better manners and ancient recollections is very apt to overshadow the fussy pretensions of the vulgar aspirant, who places his claims altogether on the all-mighty dollar. It is vain to deny it; men ever have done it, and probably ever will defer to the past, in matters of this sort—it being much with us, in this particular, as it is with our own lives, which have had all their greatest enjoyments in bygone days. I knew all this—felt all this—and was greatly afraid that Lucy, through Mrs. Bradfort's influence, and her town associations, might have learned to regard me as Captain Wallingford, of the merchant-service, and the son of another Captain Wallingford of the same line in life. I determined, therefore, to watch her with jealous attention, during the few days I was to remain at Clawbonny. With such generous intentions, the reader is not to be surprised if I found some of that for which I so earnestly sought—people being very apt to find precisely the thing for which they look, when it is not lost money.

The next morning we were all punctual, and sailed at the proper hour. The Mertons seemed pleased with the river, and, having a fresh southerly wind in our favour, with a strong flood-tide, we actually landed at the mill the same afternoon. Everything is apt to be agreeable when the traveller gets on famously; and I thought I never saw Emily in better spirits than she was when we first reached the top of the ascent that lies above the landing. I had given her my arm, as due to hospitality, while the others got up as they could; for I observed that Rupert assisted no one. As for Lucy, I was still too much vexed with her, and had been so all day, to be as civil as I ought. We were soon at a point that commanded a view of the house, meadows, orchards and fields.

“This, then, is Clawbonny!” exclaimed Emily, as soon as I pointed out the place to her. “Upon my word, a very pretty farm, Captain Wallingford. Even prettier than you represented it to be, Mr. Rupert Hardinge.”

“Oh! I always do justice to everything of Wallingford's, you know. We were children together, and became so much attached in early life, that it's no wonder we remain so in these our later days.”

Rupert was probably nearer the truth than he imagined, when he made this speech; my regard for him, by this time, being pretty much reduced to habit; and certainly it had no increase from any fresh supplies of respect. I began to hope he might not marry Grace, though I had formerly looked forward to the connection as a settled thing. “Let him get Miss Merton, if he can,” I said to myself: “it will be no great acquisition, I fancy, to either side.”

How different was it with his father, and, I may add, with Lucy! The old gentleman turned to me, with tears in his eyes; pointed to the dear old house, with a look of delight; and then took my arm, without reference to the wants of Miss Merton, and led me on, conversing earnestly of my affairs, and of his own stewardship. Lucy had her father's arm, on the other side; and the good divine was too much accustomed to her, to mind the presence of his daughter. Away we three went, therefore, leading the way, while Rupert took charge of Emily and Grace. Major Merton followed, leaning on his own man.

“It is a lovely—it is a lovely spot, Miles,” said Mr. Hardinge; “and I do most sincerely hope you will never think of tearing down that respectable-looking, comfortable, substantial, good old-fashioned house, to build a new one.”

“Why should I, dear sir? The house, with an occasional addition, all built in the same style, has served us a century, and may very well serve another. Why should I wish for more, or a better house?”

“Why, sure enough? But, now you are a sort of a merchant, you may grow rich, and wish to be the proprietor of a seat.”

The time had been, when such thoughts often crossed my mind; but I cared less for them, then. To own a seat, was the great object of my ambition in boyhood; but the thought had weakened by time and reflection.

“What does Lucy think of the matter? Do I want, or indeed deserve, a better house?”

“I shall not answer either question,” replied the dear girl, a little saucily, I thought. “I do not understand your wants, and do not choose to speak of your deservings. But I fancy the question will be settled by a certain Mrs. Wallingford, one of these days. Clever women generally determine these things for their husbands.”

I endeavoured to catch Lucy's eye, when this was said, by leaning a little forward myself; but the girl turned her head in such a manner as prevented my seeing her face. The remark was not lost on Mr. Hardinge, however, who took it up with warmth, and all the interest of a most pure and disinterested affection.

“I suppose you will think of marrying one of these days, Miles,” he said; “but, on no account, marry a woman who will desert Clawbonny, or who would wish materially to alter it. No good-hearted woman, indeed—no true-hearted woman—would ever dream of either. Dear me! dear me! the happy days and the sorrowful days—the gracious mercies of Providence, and the chastening afflictions—that I myself have seen, and felt, and witnessed, under these same roofs!”

This was followed by a sort of enumeration of the events of the last forty years, including passages in the lives of all who had dwelt at the farm; the whole concluding with the divine's solemnly repeating—“No, no! Miles; do not think, even, of marrying a woman who would wish you to desert, or materially alter, Clawbonny.”