rical renown. We lived in an old country place; my father was a convivial dog, a fox-hunter, a drunkard, yet in his way a fine gentleman,—and a very disreputable member of society. The first feelings towards him that I can remember, were those of shame. Not much matter of family pride here, you will say! True, and that is exactly the reason which made me cherish family pride elsewhere. My father's house was filled with guests, some high, and some low,—they all united in ridicule of the host. I soon detected the laughter, and you may imagine that it did not please me. Meanwhile, the old huntsman, whose family was about as antient as ours, and whose ancestors had officiated in his capacity, for the ancestors of his master time out of mind, told me story after story about the Brandons of yore. I turned from the stories to more legitimate history, and found the legends were tolerably true. I learned to glow at this discovery: the pride humbled when I remembered my sire, revived when I remembered my ancestors,—I became resolved to emulate them, to restore a sunken name, and vowed a world of nonsense on the subject.
