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.
