Saturday Evening, April 6, 1844.
My date ought to be March 30th, for I have been living over again to-day the scenes of a week ago, and in my twilight talk with my mother it was last Saturday that was reviewed, instead of this.
Last Saturday! The friends who now seem to belong to us, as if we had never done without them, were then new acquisitions. The Doctor we had not yet made out. How bright and pure that morning was! I was up early, or thought I was, until I entered our little parlor, which I had expected to find cheerless with the disorder that had made it cheerful the evening before. But Tabitha, watchful against surprises, had it in receiving-trim. She was giving it the last touches as I entered. I had heard no sound from my mother's little chamber, which my present one adjoins, and had been careful in my movements, thinking her not yet awake. But here she was already in her place on the couch, wearing a look of pleased solicitude, which I understood. I was not myself wholly free from hospitable cares. Selden had been so exact in forewarning me of Dr. Borrow's tastes and habits, that in the midst of my anticipations intruded a little prosaic anxiety about the breakfast. My mother, perhaps, shared it. Tabitha did not. She heard some officious suggestions of mine with a lofty indifference. The event justified her. How important she was, and how happy! How considerately, yet how effectively, she rang the great bell! I did not know it capable of such tones. When it summoned us, Harry was absent. The Doctor and I took our places at the table without him. My mother made his apology: he must have been very tired by his long walk the day before, and had probably overslept himself. "Not he!" cried the Doctor, with energy, as if repelling a serious accusation. "It's your breakfast"—he pointed to the clock—"was ready four minutes too soon. I've known two punctual men in my life, and Harry's one of them. He's never two minutes after the time, nor two minutes before it."
The Doctor had hardly done speaking when Harry's step was heard. It was always the same, and always gave the same sensation of a joy in prospect. Nor did it ever deceive. Dr. Borrow's good-morning was very hearty. Harry had arrived just one minute before the time. If he had come a minute earlier, or three minutes later, I do not know how it might have been, for the Doctor does not like to be put in the wrong.
Harry brought in a bouquet for my mother. He did not fail in this attention a single morning while he was here. I could not but sometimes think of her who missed this little daily offering.
I had determined beforehand to give myself entirely to Dr. Borrow during the time of his visit. I have often regretted the hours my farm took from you. I had forewarned Hans of my intention of allowing myself a vacation, and had arranged for the boys some work which did not require oversight. They were to take hold of it, without further notice, as soon as the distinguished stranger arrived. I could therefore give myself up with an easy mind to the prolonged pleasures of the breakfast-table. The Doctor was in excellent spirits,—full of anecdote and of argument. I was very near being drawn into a controversy more than once; but I was more willing to listen to him than to myself, and avoided it successfully. Harry was in the same peaceful disposition, but was not so fortunate.
A subject of difference between the friends, which seems to be a standing one, is the character of the French. How did the Doctor bring it on the table that morning? I think it was à-propos of the coffee. He praised it and compared it with Paris coffee, which he did not dispraise. But, once landed in France, that he should expatiate there for a time was of course; and he found himself, as it appeared, in a favorite field of animadversion. He began with some general reflection,—I forget what; but, from the tone in which it was given, I understood perfectly that it was a glove thrown down to Harry. It was not taken up; and the Doctor, after a little defiant pause, went forward. He drew highly colored sketches of the Gaul and the Anglo-Saxon. Harry simply abstained from being amused. Dr. Borrow passed to his individual experiences. It appeared, that, notwithstanding the light regard in which he held the French, he had done them the honor to pass several years in their country. This intimate acquaintance had only given him the fairer opportunity of making a comparison which was entirely to the advantage of the race he himself represented. He declared, that, walking about among the population of Paris, he felt himself on quite another scale and of quite another clay. Harry here suggested that perhaps a Frenchman in London, or in one of our cities, might have the same feeling.
"He can't,—he can't, if he would. No race dreams of asserting superiority over the Anglo-Saxon,—least of all the French."