That would be an injustice. It is a true life I am
about to lay before you--and I need not add that actual occurrences are
often more surprising than any due to the imagination of the romance
writer. I once knew a celebrated novelist, and one day related to him
the curious history of a family in Virginia. 'Make a romance of that,'
I said, 'it is an actual history.' But my friend shook his head. 'It
will not answer my purpose,' he replied, smiling, 'it is too strange,
and the critics would call me a "sensation writer"--that is, ruin me!'
And he was right, Surry. It is only to a friend, on some occasion like
the present, that I could tell my own story. It is too singular to be
believed otherwise.
"But I am prosing. Let me proceed. My family is an old one, they tell
me, in this part of Virginia; and my father, whose portrait you see
before you, on the mantel-piece, was what is called an 'aristocrat.'
That is to say, he was a gentleman of refined tastes and habits; fond
of books; a great admirer of fine paintings; and a gentleman of social
habits and feelings. 'Fonthill'--this old house--had been, for many
generations, the scene of a profuse hospitality; my father kept up the
ancient rites, entertaining all comers; and when I grew to boyhood I
unconsciously imbibed the feelings, and clung to the traditions of the
family.
Pages:
479
480
481
482
483
484
485
486
487
488
489
490
491
492
493
494
495
496
497
498
499
500
501
502
503