It was something,
however, in 1802, for a youngster to dare to toast a Winthrop, or a
Morris, or a Livingston, or a de Lancey, or a Stuyvesant, or a
Beekman, or a Van Renssellaer, or a Schuyler, or a Rutherford, or a
Bayard, or a Watts, or a Van Cortlandt, or a Verplanck, or a Jones, or
a Walton, or any of that set. They, and twenty similar families,
composed the remnant of the colonial aristocracy, and still made head,
within the limits of Manhattan, against the inroads of the
Van--something elses. Alas! alas! how changed is all this, though I
am obliged to believe it is all for the best.
"Do _you_ know Miss Winthrop?" I asked of Grace, in a whisper.
"Not at all; I am not much in that set," she answered,
quietly. "Rupert and Lucy have been noticed by many persons whom I do
not know."
This was the first intimation I got, that my sister did not possess
all the advantages in society that were enjoyed by her friend. As is
always the case where it is believed to be our _loss_, I felt
indignant at first; had it been the reverse, I dare say I should have
fancied it all very right. Consequences grew out of these distinctions
which I could not then foresee, but which will be related in their
place. Rupert now called on Grace for her toast, a lady commonly
succeeding a gentleman.
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