"Virginia, have chairs brought for all our friends. I cannot see to recognize them individually, but I salute them all."
"No matter about the cheers," said Silas. "We can do our business standing. Sorry to trouble you with it, sir, but it's jest this. We understand you're harboring a Yankee abolitionist, and we've called to remind you that sech things can't be allowed in a well-regulated community."
The old man, holding himself still erect with punctilious politeness,—for his guests were not seated,—and smiling with grand and venerable aspect, made reply in tones full of dignity and sweetness: "My friends, I am an old man; I am a native of Virginia, and a citizen of Tennessee; and all my life long I have been accustomed to regard the laws of hospitality as sacred."
"My sentiments exactly. I won't hear a word said agin' southern horsepitality, or southern perliteness." Mr. Ropes illustrated his remark by spitting copious tobacco-juice on the floor. "Horsepitality I look upon as one of the stable institootions of our country."
"No doubt it is so," said Mr. Villars, smiling at the unintentional pun.
"That's one thing," added Silas; "but harboring a abolitionist is another. That's the question we've jest took the liberty to call and have a little quiet talk about, to-night."
"Sit down, dear father, do!" entreated Virginia, remaining at his side in spite of her dread and abhorrence of these men. Holding his hand, and regarding him with pale and anxious looks, she endeavored with gentle force to get him into his chair. "My father is very feeble," she said, appealing to Silas, "and I beg you will have some consideration for him."
"Sartin, sartin," said Silas. "Keep yer settin', keep yer settin', Mr. Villars."
But the old man still remained upon his feet,—his tall, spare form, bent with age, his long, thin locks of white hair, and his wan, sightless, calm, and beautiful countenance presenting a wonderful contrast to the blooming figure at his side. It was a picture which might well command the respectful attention of Silas and his compeers.
"My friends," he said, with a grave smile, "we men of the south are rather boastful of our hospitality. But true hospitality consists in something besides eating and drinking with those whose companionship is a sufficient recompense for all that we do for them. It clothes the naked, feeds the hungry, shelters the distressed. With the Arabs, even an enemy is sacred who happens to be a guest. Shall an old Virginian think less of the honor of his house than an Arab?"