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- 2026-01-30T20:48:52.918Z
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- Having thus made generous room for himself, Pierre commenced operations,
interrupting his mouthfuls by many sallies of mirthfulness.
"You seem to be in prodigious fine spirits this morning, brother
Pierre," said his mother.
"Yes, very tolerable; at least I can't say, that I am low-spirited
exactly, sister Mary;--Dates, my fine fellow, bring me three bowls of
milk."
"One bowl, sir, you mean," said Dates, gravely and imperturbably.
As the servitor left the room, Mrs. Glendinning spoke. "My dear Pierre,
how often have I begged you never to permit your hilariousness to betray
you into overstepping the exact line of propriety in your intercourse
with servants. Dates' look was a respectful reproof to you just now. You
must not call Dates, _My fine fellow_. He _is_ a fine fellow, a very
fine fellow, indeed; but there is no need of telling him so at my table.
It is very easy to be entirely kind and pleasant to servants, without
the least touch of any shade of transient good-fellowship with them."
"Well, sister, no doubt you are altogether right; after this I shall
drop the _fine_, and call Dates nothing but _fellow_;--Fellow, come
here!--how will that answer?"
"Not at all, Pierre--but you are a Romeo, you know, and so for the
present I pass over your nonsense."
"Romeo! oh, no. I am far from being Romeo--" sighed Pierre. "I laugh,
but he cried; poor Romeo! alas Romeo! woe is me, Romeo! he came to a
very deplorable end, did Romeo, sister Mary."
"It was his own fault though."
"Poor Romeo!"
"He was disobedient to his parents."
"Alas Romeo!"
"He married against their particular wishes."
"Woe is me, Romeo!"
"But you, Pierre, are going to be married before long, I trust, not to a
Capulet, but to one of our own Montagues; and so Romeo's evil fortune
will hardly be yours. You will be happy."
"The more miserable Romeo!"
"Don't be so ridiculous, brother Pierre; so you are going to take Lucy
that long ride among the hills this morning? She is a sweet girl; a most
lovely girl."
"Yes, that is rather my opinion, sister Mary.--By heavens, mother, the
five zones hold not such another! She is--yes--though I say
it--Dates!--he's a precious long time getting that milk!"
"Let him stay.--Don't be a milk-sop, Pierre!"
"Ha! my sister is a little satirical this morning. I comprehend."
"Never rave, Pierre; and never rant. Your father never did either; nor
is it written of Socrates; and both were very wise men. Your father was
profoundly in love--that I know to my certain knowledge--but I never
heard him rant about it. He was always exceedingly gentlemanly: and
gentlemen never rant. Milk-sops and Muggletonians rant, but gentlemen
never."
"Thank you, sister.--There, put it down, Dates; are the horses ready?"
"Just driving round, sir, I believe."
"Why, Pierre," said his mother, glancing out at the window, "are you
going to Santa Fe De Bogota with that enormous old phaeton;--what do you
take that Juggernaut out for?"
"Humor, sister, humor; I like it because it's old-fashioned, and because
the seat is such a wide sofa of a seat, and finally because a young lady
by the name of Lucy Tartan cherishes a high regard for it. She vows she
would like to be married in it."
"Well, Pierre, all I have to say, is, be sure that Christopher puts the
coach-hammer and nails, and plenty of cords and screws into the box. And
you had better let him follow you in one of the farm wagons, with a
spare axle and some boards."
"No fear, sister; no fear;--I shall take the best of care of the old
phaeton. The quaint old arms on the panel, always remind me who it was
that first rode in it."
"I am glad you have that memory, brother Pierre."
"And who it was that _next_ rode in it."
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