Mountjoy

OR SOME PASSAGES OUT OF THE LIFE OF A CASTLE-BUILDER

I was born among romantic scenery, in one of the wildest parts of the
Hudson, which at that time was not so thickly settled as at present. My
father was descended from one of the old Huguenot families that came over
to this country on the revocation of the edict of Nantz. He lived in a
style of easy, rural independence, on a patrimonial estate that had been
for two or three generations in the family. He was an indolent,
good-natured man, who took the world as it went, and had a kind of laughing
philosophy, that parried all rubs and mishaps, and served him in the place
of wisdom. This was the part of his character least to my taste; for I was
of an enthusiastic, excitable temperament, prone to kindle up with new
schemes and projects, and he was apt to dash my sallying enthusiasm by some
unlucky joke; so that whenever I was in a glow with any sudden excitement,
I stood in mortal dread of his good-humor.

Yet he indulged me in every vagary; for I was an only son, and of course a
personage of importance in the household. I had two sisters older than
myself, and one younger. The former were educated at New York, under the
eye of a maiden aunt; the latter remained at home, and was my cherished
playmate, the companion of my thoughts. We were two imaginative little
beings, of quick susceptibility, and prone to see wonders and mysteries in
everything around us. Scarce had we learned to read, when our mother made
us holiday presents of all the nursery literature of the day; which at that
time consisted of little books covered with gilt paper, adorned with
"cuts," and filled with tales of fairies, giants, and enchanters. What
draughts of delightful fiction did we then inhale! My sister Sophy was of a
soft and tender nature. She would weep over the woes of the Children in the
Wood, or quake at the dark romance of Blue-Beard, and the terrible
mysteries of the blue chamber. But I was all for enterprise and adventure.
I burned to emulate the deeds of that heroic prince who delivered the white
cat from her enchantment; or he of no less royal blood, and doughty
enterprise, who broke the charmed slumber of the Beauty in the Wood!

The house in which we lived was just the kind of place to foster such
propensities. It was a venerable mansion, half villa, half farmhouse. The
oldest part was of stone, with loop-holes for musketry, having served as a
family fortress in the time of the Indians. To this there had been made
various additions, some of brick, some of wood, according to the exigencies
of the moment; so that it was full of nooks and crooks, and chambers of all
sorts and sizes. It was buried among willows, elms, and cherry trees, and
surrounded with roses and