He ridiculed my father:
I stomached even that, though with great difficulty. He mentioned my
mother with a sneer - and in an instant he lay sprawling at my feet.
Here a scene of tumult succeeded. The table was nearly overturned.
Bottles, glasses, and tankards, rolled crashing and clattering about
the floor. The company seized hold of both of us to keep us from doing
farther mischief. I struggled to get loose, for I was boiling with
fury. My cousin defied me to strip and fight him on the lawn. I agreed;
for I felt the strength of a giant in me, and I longed to pummel him
soundly.
Away then we were borne. A ring was formed. I had a second assigned me
in true boxing style. My cousin, as he advanced to fight, said
something about his generosity in showing me such fair play, when I had
made such an unprovoked attack upon him at his own table.
"Stop there!" cried I, in a rage - "unprovoked! - know that I am John
Buckthorne, and you have insulted the memory of my mother."
The lout was suddenly struck by what I said. He drew back and reflected
for a moment.
"Nay, damn it," said he, "that's too much - that's clear another thing.
I've a mother myself, and no one shall speak ill of her, bad as she
is."
He paused again. Nature seemed to have a rough struggle in his rude
bosom.
"Damn it, cousin," cried he, "I'm sorry for what I said. Thou'st served
me right in knocking me down, and I like thee the better for it. Here's
my hand. Come and live with me, and damme but the best room in the
house, and the best horse in the stable, shall be at thy service."
I declare to you I was strongly moved at this instance of nature
breaking her way through such a lump of flesh. I forgave the fellow in
a moment all his crimes of having been born in wedlock and inheriting
my estate. I shook the hand he offered me, to convince him that I bore
him no ill will; and then making my way through the gaping crowd of
toad-eaters, bade adieu to my uncle's domains forever. This is the last
I have seen or heard of my cousin, or of the domestic concerns of
Doubting Castle.
THE STROLLING MANAGER.
As I was walking one morning with Buckthorne, near one of the Principal
theaters, he directed my attention to a group of those equivocal beings
that may often be seen hovering about the stage-doors of theaters. They
were marvellously ill-favored in their attire, their coats buttoned up
to their chins; yet they wore their hats smartly on one side, and had a
certain knowing, dirty-gentlemanlike air, which is common to the
subalterns of the drama.
