“May I ask what you call amiable, sir?—And, when that question is answered, I may venture to go so far as to inquire whom you call amiable?”
“Very sensible distinctions, and such as are entitled to fair answers; at least the first. I do not call levity, amiability; nor mere constitutional gaiety. Some of the seemingly most light-hearted women I have ever known, have been anything but amiable. There must be an unusual absence of selfishness,—a person must live less for herself, than others—or rather, must find her own happiness in the happiness of those she loves, to make a truly amiable woman. Heart and principle are at the bottom of what is truly amiable; though temperament and disposition undoubtedly contribute. As for the whom, your own sister Grace is a truly amiable young woman. I never knew her do anything to hurt another's feelings in my life.”
“I suppose you will admit, sir, I cannot very well marry Grace?”
“I wish you could, with all my heart—yes, with all my heart! Were not you and Grace brother and sister, I should consider myself well quit of the responsibility of my guardianship, in seeing you man and wife.”
“As that is out of the question, I am not without hopes you can mention another who will do just as well, so far as I am concerned.”
“Well, there is this Miss Merton—though I do not know her well enough to venture absolutely on a recommendation. Now, I told Lucy, no later than yesterday, while we were on the river, and as you were pointing out to Miss Merton the forts in the Highlands, that I thought you would make one of the handsomest couples in the state—and, moreover, I told her—bless me, how this corn grows! The plants will be in tassel in a few days, and the crop must turn out most beneficent—truly, truly—there is a providence in all things; for, at first, I was for putting the corn on yonder hill-side, and the potatoes here; but old Hiram was led by some invisible agency to insist on this field for the corn, and the hill-side for the potatoes—and, now, look, and see what crops are in promise! Think of a nigger's blundering on such a thing?”
In 1802, even well-educated and well-intentioned clergymen had no scruples in saying “nigger.”
“But, sir, you have quite forgotten to add what else you told Lucy?”
“True—true—it is very natural that you should prefer hearing me talk about Miss Merton, to hearing me talk about potatoes—I'll tell that to Lucy, too, you may depend on it.”
“I sincerely hope you will do no such thing, my dear sir,” I cried, in no little alarm.