Chapter 6

--"Like the lily
That once was mistress of the field, and flourished,
I'll hang my head, and perish."

Queen Catherine.

I saw little of Lucy that night. She met us at evening prayers, and tears
were in her eyes as she arose from her knees. Without speaking, she kissed
her father for good night, more affectionately than ever, I thought, and
then turned to me. Her hand was extended, (we had seldom met or parted for
eighteen years, without observing this little act of kindness), but she
did not--nay, _could not_, speak. I pressed the little hand fervently in
my own, and relinquished it again, in the same eloquent silence. She was
seen no more by us until next day.

The breakfast had ever been a happy meal at Clawbonny. My father, though
merely a ship-master, was one of the better class; and he had imbibed many
notions, in the course of his different voyages, that placed him much in
advance of the ordinary habits of his day and country. Then an _American_
ship-master is usually superior to those of other countries. This arises
from some of the peculiarities of our institutions, as well as from the
circumstance that the navy is so small. Among other improvements, my
father had broken in upon the venerable American custom of swallowing a
meal as soon as out of bed. The breakfast at Clawbonny, from my earliest
infancy, or as long as I can remember, had been eaten regularly at nine
o'clock, a happy medium between the laziness of dissipation and the hurry
of ill-formed habits. At that hour the whole family used to meet, still
fresh from a night's repose, and yet enlivened and gay by an hour or two
of exercise in the open air, instead of coming to the family board half
asleep, with a sort of drowsy sulkiness, as, if the meal were a duty, and
not a pleasure. We ate as leisurely as keen appetites would permit;
laughed, chatted, related the events of the morning, conversed of our
plans for the day, and indulged our several tastes and humours, like
people who had been up and stirring, and not like so many drowsy drones
swallowing our food for form's sake. The American breakfast has been
celebrated by several modern writers, and it deserves to be, though
certainly not to be compared to that of France. Still it might be far
better than it is, did our people understand the _mood_ in which it ought
to be enjoyed.

While on this subject, the reader will excuse an old man's prolixity, if I
say a word on the state of the science of the table in general, as it is
put in practice in this great republic. A writer of this country, one Mr.
Cooper, has somewhere said that the Americans are the grossest feeders in
the civilized world, and warns his countrymen to remember that a national
character may be