A Cathedral Courtship | Page 8

the name of Martha Huggins.
Just after I had settled myself, the flower of chivalry came in and
ordered ale. I was disconcerted at being found in a dramshop alone, for
I thought, after the bag episode, he might fancy us a family of
inebriates. But he didn't evince the slightest astonishment; he merely
lifted his hat, and walked out after he had finished his ale. He certainly
has the loveliest manners!
And so it goes on, and we never get any further. I like his politeness
and his evident feeling that I can't be flirted and talked with like a
forward boarding-school miss, but I must say I don't think much of his
ingenuity. Of course one can't have all the virtues, but, if I were he, I
would part with my distinguished air, my charming ease, in fact almost
anything, if I could have in exchange a few grains of common sense,
just enough to guide me in the practical affairs of life.
I wonder what he is? He might be an artist, but he doesn't seem quite
like an artist; or a dilettante, but he doesn't seem in the least like a
dilettante. Or he might be an architect; I think that is the most probable
guess of all. Perhaps he is only "going to be" one of these things, for he
can't be more than twenty-five or twenty-six. Still he looks as if he
were something already; that is, he has a kind of self-reliance in his
mien,--not self-assertion, nor self-esteem, but belief in self, as if he
were able, and knew that he was able, to conquer circumstances.

HE

GLOUCESTER, June 10 The Bell.
Nothing accomplished yet. Her aunt is a Van Tyck, and a stiff one, too.
I am a Copley, and that delays matters. Much depends upon the manner

of approach. A false move would be fatal. We have six more towns (as
per itinerary), and if their thirst for cathedrals isn't slaked when these
are finished we have the entire continent to do. If I could only succeed
in making an impression on the retina of aunt Celia's eye! Though I
have been under her feet for ten days, she never yet has observed me.
This absent-mindedness of hers serves me ill now, but it may prove a
blessing later on.

SHE

OXFORD, June 12 The Mitre.
It was here in Oxford that a grain of common sense entered the brain of
the flower of chivalry. You might call it the dawn of reason. We had
spent part of the morning in High Street, "the noblest old street in
England," as our dear Hawthorne calls it. As Wordsworth had written a
sonnet about it, aunt Celia was armed for the fray,--a volume of
Wordsworth in one hand, and one of Hawthorne in the other. (I wish
Baedeker didn't give such full information about what one ought to
read before one can approach these places in a proper spirit.) When we
had done High Street, we went to Magdalen College, and sat down on a
bench in Addison's Walk, where aunt Celia proceeded to store my mind
with the principal facts of Addison's career, and his influence on the
literature of the something or other century. The cramming process
over, we wandered along, and came upon "him" sketching a shady
corner of the walk.
Aunt Celia went up behind him, and, Van Tyck though she is, she
could not restrain her admiration of his work. I was surprised myself: I
didn't suppose so good looking a youth could do such good work. I
retired to a safe distance, and they chatted together. He offered her the
sketch; she refused to take advantage of his kindness. He said he would
"dash off" another that evening, and bring it to our hotel,--"so glad to
do anything for a fellow- countryman," etc. I peeped from behind a tree
and saw him give her his card. It was an awful moment; I trembled, but
she read it with unmistakable approval, and gave him her own with an
expression that meant, "Yours is good, but beat that if you can!"
She called to me, and I appeared. Mr. John Quincy Copley, Cambridge,
was presented to her niece, Miss Katharine Schuyler, New York. It was

over, and a very small thing to take so long about, too.
He is an architect, and of course has a smooth path into aunt Celia's
affections. Theological students, ministers, missionaries, heroes, and
martyrs she may distrust, but architects never!
"He is an architect, my dear Katharine, and he is a Copley," she told me
afterwards. "I never knew a Copley who was not respectable, and many
of them have been more."
After the introduction was over, aunt Celia asked him guilelessly