The Redskins; or, Indian and Injin, Volume 1.: Being the Conclusion of the Littlepage ManuscriptsCooper, James Fenimore
History
The Redskins; or, Indian and Injin, Volume 1.: Being the Conclusion of the Littlepage Manuscripts
Cooper, James Fenimore
Indians of North America -- Fiction; New York (State) -- History -- Colonial period, ca. 1600-1775 -- Fiction
My grandmother looked as a lady would look under such circumstances,
neither too free to forget present appearances, nor coldly neglectful of
the past. She knew that something was due to her own household, and to
the example she ought to set it, while she felt that far more was due to
the sentiment that unites the cultivated. We were asked into the house,
were told a table was preparing for us, and were treated with a generous
and considerate hospitality that involved no descent from her own
character, or that of the sex; the last being committed to the keeping
of every lady.
In the mean time, business proceeded with my uncle. He was paid his
hundred dollars; and all his stores of value, including rings, brooches,
ear-rings, chains, bracelets, and other trinkets that he had intended as
presents to his wards, were produced from his pockets, and laid before
the bright eyes of the three girls--Mary Warren keeping in the back
ground, as one who ought not to look on things unsuited to her fortune.
Her father had arrived, however, had been consulted, and the pretty
watch was already attached to the girdle of the prettier waist. I
fancied the tear of gratitude that still floated in her serene eyes was
a jewel of far higher price than any my uncle could exhibit.
We had been shown into the library, a room that was in the front of the
house, and of which the windows all opened on the piazza. I was at first
a little overcome, at thus finding myself, and unrecognized, under the
paternal roof, and in a dwelling that was my own, after so many years of
absence. Shall I confess it! Everything appeared diminutive and mean,
after the buildings to which I had been accustomed in the old world. I
am not now drawing comparisons with the palaces of princes, and the
abodes of the great, as the American is apt to fancy, whenever anything
is named that is superior to the things to which he is accustomed; but
to the style, dwellings, and appliances of domestic life that pertain to
those of other countries who have not a claim in anything to be
accounted my superiors--scarcely my equals. In a word, American
aristocracy, or that which it is getting to be the fashion to stigmatize
as aristocratic, would be deemed very democratic in most of the nations
of Europe. Our Swiss brethren have their chateaux and their habits that
are a hundred times more aristocratic than anything about Ravensnest,
without giving offence to liberty; and I feel persuaded, were the
proudest establishment in all America pointed out to a European as an
aristocratic abode, he would be very apt to laugh at it, in his sleeve.
The secret of this charge among ourselves is the innate dislike which is
growing up in the country to see any man distinguished from the mass
around him in anything, even though it should be in merit. It is nothing
but the expansion of the principle which gave rise to the traditionary
feud between the "plebeians and patricians" of Albany, at the
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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