My ancestors were gentlemen of considerable
taste. I am glad they built me that wing for my
books; my numerous children cannot disturb me
when I am composing, either my speech to be delivered
in the Senate, or my work which is destined
to refute Sir William Hamilton.

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Let us stroll in. A strain of tender music comes
from the sitting-room, and I recognize the exquisite
air of “Katharine Ogie” which Annie is singing.
Let us look, nevertheless, at the pictures as we
pass.

What a stately head my old grandfather had!
He was president of the King's Council, a hundred
years ago—a man of decided mark. He wears a
long peruke descending in curls upon his shoulders—
a gold-laced waistcoat—and snowy ruffles. His
white hand is nearly covered with lace, and rests
on a scroll of parchment. It looks like a Vandyke.
He must have been a resolute old gentleman.
How serene and calm is his look!—how firm are
the finely chiselled lips! How proud and full of
collected intelligence the erect head, and the broad
white brow! He was a famous “macaroni,” as
they called it, in his youth—and cultivated an
enormous crop of wild oats. But this all disappeared,
and he became one of the sturdiest patriots
of the Revolution, and fought clear through the
contest. Is it wrong to feel satisfaction at being
descended from a worthy race of men—from a
family of brave, truthful gentlemen? I think not.
I trust I'm no absurd aristocrat—but I would
rather be the grandson of a faithful common soldier
than of General Benedict Arnold, the traitor. I

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would rather trace my lineage to the Chevalier
Bayàrd, simple knight though he was, than to
France's great Constable de Bourbon, the renegade.

So I am glad my stout grandfather was a brave
and truthful gentleman—that grandma yonder, smiling
opposite, was worthy to be his wife. I do not
remember her, but she must have been a beauty.
Her head is bent over one shoulder, and she has an
exquisitely coquettish air. Her eyes are blue—her
arms round, and as white as snow—and what lips!
They are like carnations, and pout with a pretty
smiling air, which must have made her dangerous.
She rejected many wealthy offers to marry grandpa,
who was then poor. As I gaze, it seems scarcely
courteous to remain thus covered in presence of a
lady so lovely. I take off my hat, and make my
best bow, saluting my little grandmamma of “sweet
seventeen,” who smiles and seems graciously to bow
in return.

All around me I see my family. There is my
uncle, the captain in Colonel Washington's troop.
I do not now mean the Colonel Washington of the
French wars, who afterward became General
Washington of the American Revolution—though
my uncle, the captain, knew him very well, I am
told, and often visited him at Mount Vernon, the

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colonel's estate, where they hunted foxes together,
along the Potomac. I mean the brave Colonel
Washington who fought so nobly in North Carolina.
My uncle died there. His company was
much thinned at every step by the horrible hailstorm
of balls. He was riding in front with his
drawn sword, shouting as the column fell, man by
man, “Steady, boys, steady!—close up!”—when
a ball struck him. His last words were “A good
death, boys! a good death! Close up!” So, you
see, he ended nobly.

Beside my uncle and the rest of his kith and
kin of the wars, you see, yonder, a row of beauties,
all smiling and gay, or pensive and tender—interspersed
with bright-faced children, blooming like
so many flowers along the old walls of the hall.
How they please and interest me! True, there are
other portraits in our little house at home—not my
hall here—which, perhaps, I should love with a
warmer regard; but let me not cramp my sympathies,
or indulge any early preferences. I must
not be partial. So I admire these here before me—
and bow to them, one and all. I fancy that they
bow in return—that the stalwart warriors stretch
vigorous hands toward me—that the delicate beauties
bend down their little heads, all covered with
powder, and return my homage with a smile.

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Why not? Can my shabby coat make the
lovely or proud faces ashamed of me? Do they turn
from me coldly because I'm the last of a ruined
line? Do they sneer at my napless hat, and laugh
at my tattered elbows? I do not think of them so
poorly and unkindly. My coat is very shabby, but
I think, at least I hope, that it covers an honest
heart.

So I bow to the noble and beautiful faces, and
again they smile in return. I seem to have wandered
away into the past and dreamed in a realm
of silence. And yet—it is strange I did not hear
her—Annie is still singing through the hall.