Heralds of Empire | Page 3

silken hose and big
shoe-buckles late introduced from France by the king; and a beaver hat
with plumes a-nodding like my lady's fan. My curls, I mind, tumbled
forward thicker than those foppish French perukes.
"There is thy Uncle Kirke," whispers Nurse Tibbie. "Pay thy best
devoirs, Master Ramsay," and she pushes me to the fore of those
crowding up the docks.

A thin, pale man with a scarred face silently permitted me to salute four
limp fingers. His eyes swept me with chill disapproval. My hat clapped
on a deal faster than it had come off, for you must know we unhatted in
those days with a grand, slow bow.
"Thy Aunt Ruth," says Tibbie, nudging me; for had I stood from that
day to this, I was bound that cold man should speak first.
To my aunt the beaver came off in its grandest flourish. The pressure of
a dutiful kiss touched my forehead, and I minded the passion kisses of a
dead mother.
Those errant curls blew out in the wind.
"Ramsay Stanhope," begins my uncle sourly, "what do you with
uncropped hair and the foolish trappings of vanity?"
As I live, those were the first words he uttered to me.
"I perceive silken garters," says he, clearing his throat and lowering his
glance down my person. "Many a good man hath exchanged silk for
hemp, my fine gentleman!"
"An the hemp hold like silk, 'twere a fair exchange, sir," I returned;
though I knew very well he referred to those men who had died for the
cause.
"Ramsay," says he, pointing one lank fore-finger at me, "Ramsay, draw
your neck out of that collar; for the vanities of the wicked are a yoke
leading captive the foolish!"
Now, my collar was point-de-vice of prime quality over black velvet.
My uncle's welcome was more than a vain lad could stomach; and what
youth of his first teens hath not a vanity hidden about him somewhere?
"Thou shalt not put the horse and the ass under the same yoke, sir," said
I, drawing myself up far as ever high heels would lift.
He looked dazed for a minute. Then he told me that he spake

concerning my spiritual blindness, his compassions being moved to
show me the error of my way.
At that, old nurse must needs take fire.
"Lord save a lad from the likes o' sich compassions! Sure, sir, an the
good Lord makes pretty hair grow, 'twere casting pearls before swine to
shave his head like a cannon-ball"--this with a look at my uncle's
crown--"or to dress a proper little gentleman like a ragged
flibbergibbet."
"Tibbie, hold your tongue!" I order.
"Silence were fitter for fools and children," says Eli Kirke loftily.
There comes a time when every life must choose whether to laugh or
weep over trivial pains, and when a cut may be broken on the foil of
that glancing mirth which the good Creator gave mankind to keep our
race from going mad. It came to me on the night of my arrival on the
wharves of Boston Town.
We lumbered up through the straggling village in one of those clumsy
coaches that had late become the terror of foot-passengers in London
crowds. My aunt pointed with a pride that was colonial to the fine light
which the towns-people had erected on Beacon Hill; and told me pretty
legends of Rattlesnake Hill that fired the desire to explore those inland
dangers. I noticed that the rubble-faced houses showed lanterns in iron
clamps above most of the doorways. My kinsman's house stood on the
verge of the wilds-rough stone below, timbered plaster above, with a
circle of bay windows midway, like an umbrella. High windows were
safer in case of attack from savages, Aunt Ruth explained; and I
mentally set to scaling rope ladders in and out of those windows.
We drew up before the front garden and entered by a turnstile with
flying arms. Many a ride have little Rebecca Stocking, of the
court-house, and Ben Gillam, the captain's son, and Jack Battle, the
sailor lad, had, perched on that turnstile, while I ran pushing and
jumping on, as the arms flew creaking round.

The home-coming was not auspicious. Yet I thought no resentment
against my uncle. I realized too well how the bloody revenge of the
royalists was turning the hearts of England to stone. One morning I
recall, when my poor father lay a-bed of the gout and there came a roar
through London streets as of a burst ocean dike. Before Tibbie could
say no, I had snatched up a cap and was off.
God spare me another such sight! In all my wild wanderings have I
never seen savages do worse.
Through the streets of London before the shoutings of a