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.
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.
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