He glanced over it to see that everything was there,
to his father's hand. Then he said, "Good night, sir,"
and the elder responded, "Good night, my son," and the son
went to his own room.
Over the mantel in the elder Corey's room hung a portrait
which he had painted of his own father, and now he stood
a moment and looked at this as if struck by something
novel in it. The resemblance between his son and the old
India merchant, who had followed the trade from Salem to
Boston when the larger city drew it away from the smaller,
must have been what struck him. Grandfather and grandson had
both the Roman nose which appears to have flourished chiefly
at the formative period of the republic, and which occurs
more rarely in the descendants of the conscript fathers,
though it still characterises the profiles of a good many
Boston ladies. Bromfield Corey had not inherited it,
and he had made his straight nose his defence when the
old merchant accused him of a want of energy. He said,
"What could a man do whose unnatural father had left his
own nose away from him?" This amused but did not satisfy
the merchant. "You must do something," he said; "and it's
for you to choose. If you don't like the India trade,
go into something else. Or, take up law or medicine.
No Corey yet ever proposed to do nothing.
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