"Good evening to
you, honored sir," said he, making a low bow, and still retaining his
hold of the skirt. "I pray you tell me whereabouts is the dwelling of my
kinsman, Major Molineux."
The
youth’s question was uttered very loudly; and one of the barbers, whose razor
was descending on a well-soaped chin, and another who was dressing a Ramillies wig, left their occupations, and came to the
door. The citizen, in the meantime, turned a long-favored countenance upon
Robin, and answered him in a tone of excessive anger and annoyance. His two
sepulchral hems, however, broke into the very centre of his rebuke, with most
singular effect, like a thought of the cold grave obtruding among wrathful
passions.
"Let
go my garment, fellow! I tell you, I know not the man you speak of. What! I
have authority, I have—hem, hem—authority; and if this be the respect you
show for your betters, your feet shall be brought acquainted with the stocks
by daylight, to-morrow morning!"
Robin
released the old man’s skirt, and hastened away, pursued by an ill-mannered
roar of laughter from the barber’s shop. He was at first considerably
surprised by the result of his question, but, being a shrewd youth, soon
thought himself able to account for the mystery.
"This
is some country representative," was his conclusion, "who has never
seen the inside of my kinsman’s door, and lacks the breeding to answer a
stranger civilly. The man is old, or verily—I might be tempted to turn back
and smite him on the nose. Ah, Robin, Robin! even
the barber’s boys laugh at you for choosing such a guide! You will be wiser
in time, friend Robin."
He now
became entangled in a succession of crooked and narrow streets, which crossed
each other, and meandered at no great distance from the waterside. The smell
of tar was obvious to his nostrils, the masts of vessels pierced the moonlight
above the tops of the buildings, and the numerous signs, which Robin paused
to read, informed him that he was near the centre of business. But the
streets were empty, the shops were closed, and lights were visible only in
the second stories of a few dwelling-houses. At length, on the corner of a
narrow lane, through which he was passing, he beheld the broad countenance of
a British hero swinging before the door of an inn, whence proceeded the
voices of many guests. The casement of one of the lower windows was thrown
back, and a very thin curtain permitted Robin to distinguish a party at
supper, round a well-furnished table. The fragrance of the good cheer steamed
forth into the outer air, and the youth could not fail to recollect that the
last remnant of his travelling stock of provision
had yielded to his morning appetite, and that noon had found and left him
dinnerless.
"Oh,
that a parchment three-penny might give me a right to sit down at yonder
table!" said Robin, with a sigh. "But the Major will make me
welcome to the best of his victuals; so I will even stop boldly in, and
inquire my way to his dwelling."
He entered
the tavern, and was guided by the murmur of voices and the fumes of tobacco
in the public-room. It was a long and low apartment, with oaken walls, grown
dark in the continual smoke, and a floor which was thickly sanded, but of no
immaculate purity. A number of persons—the larger part of whom appeared to be
mariners, or in some way connected with the sea—occupied the wooden benches,
or leather-bottomed chairs, conversing on various matters, and occasionally
lending their attention to some topic of general interest. Three or four
little groups were draining as many bowls of punch, which the West India trade had long since made a familiar
drink in the colony. Others, who had the appearance of men who lived by
regular and laborious handicraft, preferred the insulated bliss of an
unshared potation, and became more taciturn under its influence. Nearly all,
in short, evinced a predilection for the Good Creature in some of its various
shapes, for this is a vice to which, as Fast Day sermons of a hundred years
ago will testify, we have a long hereditary claim. The only guests to whom
Robin’s sympathies inclined him were two or three sheepish countrymen, who
were using the inn somewhat after the fashion of a Turkish caravansary; they
had gotten themselves into the darkest corner of the room, and heedless of
the Nicotian atmosphere, were supping on the bread
of their own ovens, and the bacon cured in their own chimney-smoke. But
though Robin felt a sort of brotherhood with these strangers, his eyes were
attracted from them to a person who stood near the door, holding whispered
conversation with a group of ill-dressed associates. His features were
separately striking almost to grotesqueness, and the whole face left a deep
impression on the memory. The forehead bulged out into a double prominence,
with a vale between; the nose came boldly forth in an irregular curve, and
its bridge was of more than a finger’s breadth; the eyebrows were deep and
shaggy, and the eyes glowed beneath them like fire in a cave.
While
Robin deliberated of whom to inquire respecting his kinsman’s dwelling, he
was accosted by the innkeeper, a little man in a stained white apron, who had
come to pay his professional welcome to the stranger. Being in the second
generation from a French Protestant, he seemed to have inherited the courtesy
of his parent nation; but no variety of circumstances was ever known to
change his voice from the one shrill note in which he now addressed Robin.
"From
the country, I presume, sir?" said he, with a profound bow. "Beg
leave to congratulate you on your arrival, and trust you intend a long stay
with us. Fine town here, sir, beautiful buildings, and much that may interest
a stranger. May I hope for the honor of your commands in respect to
supper?"
"The
man sees a family likeness! the rogue has guessed
that I am related to the Major!" thought Robin, who had hitherto
experienced little superfluous civility.
All eyes
were now turned on the country lad, standing at the door, in his worn
three-cornered hat, gray coat, leather breeches, and blue yarn stockings,
leaning on an oaken cudgel, and bearing a wallet on his back.
From My Kinsman, Major
Molineux by Nathaniel Hawthorne.
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