Then loathed he in his native land to dwell.--_Childe Harold_.
_Slend_. A gentleman born, Master Parson, who writes himself
_Armigero_; in any bill, warrant, quittance, or obligation,
_Armigero_!
_Shal_. Ay, that I do; and have done any time these three hundred
years.--_Merry Wives of Windsor_.
The engagement of Miss Leslie and Morton was to be kept secret till
the latter's return. None knew it but Leslie and Vinal. Vinal, within
a few weeks, sailed for Europe, meaning, however, to be absent only
three or four months. Other motives apart, he felt, and Leslie saw,
that his health, always shivering in the wind, demanded the change.
Meanwhile, Morton made the best of a six weeks' reprieve; and hampered
as he was by the injunction of secrecy, and the precautions which it
demanded, he crowded the short interval with half a lifetime of mixed
pleasure and pain, expectation and anxiety.
It was past but too quickly; in three days more he must set sail.
Walking the street in a rueful mood, he met his classmate, Chester,
who, having made the tour of Europe, had lost his obsolete ways, and
grown backward into a man of the present world.
"Good morning, Morton. Making calls?--I see it by your face."
"Yes; it's a thing that must be done sometimes."
"_Pour prendre conge_, I suppose. I hear you are off very soon."
"The day after to-morrow."
"You couldn't do a wiser thing. When a man finds himself in a scrape,
he had better get out of it as soon as possible; therefore, if he
finds himself born in America, he had better forswear his country."
"Patriotic sentiments those."
"I can't answer for the patriotism; but they are the sentiments of a
true son of the Pilgrim Fathers, who renounced their country because
they couldn't stand it, and came over here. I mean to follow their
example, and go back again. They fled--so the story goes--from
persecution. I mean to fly from persecution too,--the persecution of a
social atmosphere that I find hostile to my constitution, and a
climate not fit for a reasonable being to live in."
"I don't know why you should be so fierce against the climate. By your
look, you seem to thrive in it."
"The bodily man thrives passably well. It's the immortal part that
suffers. Fierce! why, the climate makes me fierce. Who can be a
philosopher in such a climate?--or a poet?--or an artist?--any thing
but a steam engine? It is a perpetual spur, an unremitting goad.
Nobody is happy in it except the men who ride on locomotives and
conduct express trains,--always on the move. O, so you go in here, do
you?"
"Yes, to see Mrs. Primrose. Will you come too?"
"No, thank you," replied Chester, walking away, with a comical look.
Morton rang the door bell, and found Mrs. Primrose at home.
There was a book on the table. He took it up. It was a novel, lately
published.
Morton praised it.
Mrs. Primrose dissented, with great emphasis.
"You are severe upon the book."
"Not more so than it deserves," replied Mrs. Primrose; "it is too
coarse to be permitted for a moment."
"And yet the moral tone seems good enough."
"I do not blame the morality so much as the bad taste. It is full of
slang dialogue, and was certainly written by a very unrefined person."
"It makes its characters speak as such people speak in real life."
"It is not merely that," said Mrs. Primrose, slightly pursing her
mouth; "it contains, besides, expressions absolutely reprehensible."
"One does not admire its good taste; but a little blunt Saxon never
did much harm."
"No daughter of mine shall read it," said Mrs. Primrose, with gravity.
"I imagine that if literature is to reflect human life truly, it can
hardly be limited to the language of the drawing room."
"Then it should be banished from the drawing room," said Mrs.
Primrose, with severity.
Here several visitors appeared, and Morton presently took leave.
He was but a few rods from the door, when a quick step came behind
him.
"Hallo, colonel, where are you going at such a rate?"
Morton turned, and saw his classmate, Rosny.
"Why, Dick, I'm glad to see you."
"They tell me you're bound for Europe."
"Yes."
"Well, it's a good move. If a man has money, he had better enjoy it."
"I shall be driving out of town in an hour. Come and dine with me."
"Sorry, colonel, but it can't be done. I'm out on the stump in the
cause of democracy. Shall be off westward in two hours, and shake the
dust from my shoes against this nest of whiggery and old fogyism."
"Democracy is under the weather just now, Dick."
"Just now, I grant you. What with log cabins and hard cider, and
coons, the enlightened people are pretty well gammoned. But there's a
good time coming. Before you know it, democracy will be upon you again
like a load of bricks. Why, what can you expect of a party that will
take a coon for its emblem? I saw one chained up this morning in the
yard of Taft's tavern, a dirty, mean-looking beast, about half way
between a jackal and an owl. He looked uncommonly well in health, and
could puff out his fur as round as a muff. But, when you looked close,
there was nothing of him but skin and bone; exactly like the whig
party. He put up his nose, and smiled at me. I suppose--damn his
impudence--he took me for a whig. That coon is going into a decline.
It won't be long before he is taken by the tail and tossed over
Charles River bridge; and there he'll lie on the mud at low tide, for
a genuine emblem of the defunct whig party, and a solemn warning to
all coon worshippers."
"Let the whigs alone, Dick; and if you won't dine with me, come in
here and drink a glass of claret."
"That I'll do." And they went into the hotel accordingly.
As Rosny took up his glass, Morton observed a large old seal ring on
his finger.
"Do you call yourself a democrat, and yet always wear that ring of
yours?"
"Why, what's the matter with the ring?"
"Nothing, except that it is a badge of feudalism, aristocracy, and
every thing else abominable to your party."
"Pshaw, man. Look here: do you see that crest, cut in the stone? That
crest followed King Francis to Pavia, and when Henri Quatre charged at
Ivry, it wasn't far behind him. It is mine by right. It comes down to
me, straight as a bee line, through twenty generations. And do you
think I'm going to renounce my birthright? No, be gad!"
"I wouldn't. But what becomes of your democracy?"
"Democracy is tall enough to take care of itself. I wear that ring;
but it don't follow that I stand on my ancestry. You needn't laugh:
the case is just this. If the blood in my veins makes me stand to my
colors where another man would flinch, or hold my head up where
another would be sprawling on his back; if it gives me a better pluck,
grit, go-ahead; why, _that's_ what I stand on,--_that's_ my patent of
nobility. What the deuse are you laughing at?--the personal
quality,--don't you see?--and not the ancestry."
"If you stand on personal merit, you'll be sure to go under before
long. The democracy are growing as jealous of that as of ancestry, or
of wealth either."
"Why, what do you know about politics? You never had any thing to do
with them. You are no more fit for a politician than for a fiddler."
"I'm glad you think so. If I must serve the country in any public
capacity, I pray Heaven it may be as a scavenger sooner than as a
politician. Who can touch pitch and be clean? I'll pay back your
compliment, Dick. You are a great deal too downright to succeed in
public life."
"I'll find a way or make one. But I tell you, colonel,"--and a shade
of something like disappointment passed over his face,--"if a man
wants the people's votes, it's fifty to one that he's got to sink
himself lower than the gutter before he gets them."
"Yes, and when the people have turned out of office every man of
virtue, honor, manliness, independence, and ability, then they will
fling up their caps and brag that their day is come, and their triumph
finished over the damned aristocracy."
"You are an unbeliever. You haven't half faith enough in the people.
Now I put it to your common sense. Isn't there a thousand times more
patriotism in the laboring classes in this country--yes, and about as
much intelligence--as in the rabble of sham fashionables at Saratoga,
or any other muster of our moneyed snobs and flunkeys?"
"Exceptions excepted, yes."
"War to the knife with the codfish aristocracy! They are a kind of
mongrel beast, expressly devised and concocted for me to kick. I don't
mean the gentlemen with money; nor the good fellows with money. I know
what a gentleman is; yes, and a lady, too, though I do make stump
speeches, and shake hands all round with the sovereign people. That
sort are welcome to their money. No, sir, it's the moneyed snobs, the
gilded toadstools, that it's my mission to pitch into."
"Excuse me a moment, Dick," said Morton, suddenly leaping from his
seat, as a lady passed the window.
"A lady, eh! Then I'll be off."
"No, no, stay where you are. I'll be back again in three minutes."
He ran out of the hotel, and walked at his best pace in pursuit of
Fanny Euston, who, on her part, was walking with an earnest air, like
one whose thoughts were engaged with some engrossing subject. He
reached her side, and made a movement to accost her; but she seemed
unconscious of his presence.
"Miss Fanny Euston, will you pardon me for breaking in upon your
reveries?"
She turned and recognized him, but her smile of recognition was a very
mournful one.
"I have stopped you to take my leave,--a good deal more in short hand
than I meant it should have been. I shall sail for Europe the day
after to-morrow."
"Yes? Is not that a little sudden?"
"More sudden than I wish it were. I am not at all in a travelling
humor. I have been too much pressed for time to ride out, as I meant
to do, to your father's house."
"We are all in town now. My father came from New Orleans yesterday,
very ill."
"I did not hear of it. I trust not dangerously ill."
"He is dying. He cannot live a week."
Morton well knew the strength and depth of her attachment to her
father. He pressed her hand in silent sympathy.
"It grieves me, Fanny," he said, after a moment, "to part from you
under such a cloud."
"Good by," she replied, returning the friendly pressure. "I wish you
with all my heart a pleasant and prosperous journey."
Morton turned back, wondering at the sudden dignity of manner which
grief had given to the wild and lawless Fanny Euston.