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 would rather
trace my lineage to the Chevalier Bayard, 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.
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