eat family tree, which,
springing from the same root, expected to derive support and
nourishment from the main stem.

That time is well-nigh gone for ever. Kindred love and hospitality have
decreased with the increase of modern luxury and exclusiveness, and the
sacred ties of consanguinity are now regarded with indifference; or if
recognized, it is only with those who move in the same charmed circle,
and who make a respectable appearance in the world: then, and then
only, are their names pronounced with reverence, and their relationship
considered an honor.

It is amusing to watch from a distance, the eagerness with which some
people assert their claims to relationship with wealthy and titled
families, and the intrigue and manoeuvring it calls forth in these
fortunate individuals, in order to disclaim the boasted connexion.

It was my fate for many years to eat the bitter bread of dependence,
as one of those despised and insulted domestic annoyances--_A Poor
Relation_.

My grandfather, Geoffrey Moncton, whose name I bear, was the youngest
son of a wealthy Yorkshire Baronet, whose hopes and affections entirely
centered in his first-born. What became of the junior scions of the
family-tree was to him a matter of secondary consideration. My
grandfather, however, had to be provided for in a manner becoming the
son of a gentleman, and on his leaving college, Sir Robert offered to
purchase him a commission in the army.

My grandfather was a lad of peaceable habits, and had a mortal
antipathy to fighting. He refused point blank to be a soldier. The Navy
offered the same cause for objection, strengthened by a natural
aversion to the water, which made him decline going to sea.

What was to be done with the incorrigible youth? Sir Robert flew into
a passion--called him a coward--a disgrace to the name of Moncton.

My grandfather, who was a philosopher in his way, pleaded guilty to the
first charge. From his cradle he had carefully avoided scenes of strife
and violence, and had been a quiet, industrious boy at school, a sober
plodding student at college, minding his own business, and troubling
himself very little with the affairs of others. The sight of blood made
him sick; he hated the smell of gunpowder, and would make any sacrifice
of time and trouble rather than come to blows. He now listened to the
long catalogue of his demerits, which his angry progenitor poured forth
against him, with such stoical indifference, that