I come of a good stock, Mr. Editor. The Delamores are a race singularly tenacious of their honour; men who, in the language of Edmund Burke, feel a stain like a wound. My grand uncle died of a fit of the sullens for the disgrace of a public whipping at Westminster. He had not then attained his fourteenth year. Would I had died young!
For more than five centuries, the current of our blood hath flowed unimpeachably. And must it stagnate now?
Can a family be tainted backwards?—can posterity purchase disgrace for their progenitors?—or doth it derogate from the great Walter of our name, who received the sword of knighthood in Cressy field, that one of his descendants once sate * * * * * * * * * * *?
Can an honour, fairly achieved in quinto Edwardi Tertii, be reversed by a slip in quinquagesimo Georgii Tertii?—how stands the law?—what dictum doth the college deliver?—O Clarencieux! O Norroy!
Can a reputation, gained by hard watchings on the cold ground, in a suit of mail, be impeached by hard watchings on the cold ground in other circumstances—was the endurance equal?—why is the guerdon so disproportionate?
A priest mediated the ransom of the too valorous Reginald, of our house, captived in Lord Talbot's battles. It was a clergyman, who by his intercession abridged the period of my durance.
Have you touched at my wrongs yet, Mr. Editor?—or must I be explicit as to my grievance?
Hush, my heedless tongue.
Something bids me—"Delamore, be ingenuous."
Once then, and only once——