New York - The Novel

inspiring freedom-loving men on both sides of the Atlantic.
    “You read philosophy?” Mrs. Master asked Kate, in some perplexity.
    “Just the famous bits,” said Kate cheerfully, with a smile toward the boy who, she supposed, had done the same. But young John Master only gazed at the table and shook his head.
    It was now that Kate decided that the Greek god by her side might be shy. It rather increased her interest. She wondered what she could say to encourage him. But raised in the literary Boston household of her father, she still had not quite comprehended that she was in alien territory.
    “Last summer,” she remarked to him, “we saw some of the Harvardmen perform an act of Addison’s
Cato
. I have heard that the whole play is to be given later this year in our American colonies. Do you know if it’s coming to New York?” The question was pertinent to the Zenger trial. For Addison, founder of England’s
Spectator
magazine, and model for every civilized English gentleman, had scored a huge success with his account of how a noble Roman republican had opposed the tyranny of Caesar. The play’s reputation had long since crossed the Atlantic, and she felt sure her companion would have read of it in the newspapers. But all she got was a “Don’t know.”
    “You must forgive us, Miss Kate, if we concern ourselves more with trade than literature in this house,” the merchant remarked; though he felt bound to add, with a hint of reproach: “I believe, John, you’ve heard of Addison’s
Cato.”
    “Trade holds the key to liberty,” the Boston lawyer added firmly, coming to their aid. “Trade spreads wealth, and in so doing, it promotes freedom and equality. That’s what Daniel Defoe says.”
    At last young John looked up with a ray of hope.
    “The man that wrote
Robinson Crusoe?”
    “The very same.”
    “I read that.”
    “Well then,” said the lawyer, “that is something.”

    They made no further attempts at literary conversation, but for a time devoted their attention to the three handsome fruit pies that had just been brought in. Yet as he glanced round the table, Eliot Master was not unhappy. He had been quite pleased with his own little oration, and he meant every word of it. His cousin had been quite right that he would not have come here, all the way from Boston, if he was not passionate about the matter. As for his cousin Dirk’s character, he might be a rogue, but he evidently wasn’t a fool. That at least was something. The merchant’s wife, he privately discounted. That left the boy.
    It was entirely clear, he thought, that this boy, however good-looking, was of slight intelligence. Good enough for the company of rough sailors and smugglers, but otherwise a lout. There was no possibility, he felt sure, that his Kate, who had acquitted herself so well in the conversation, could have any interest in such a fellow. His mind at rest, he took a second slice of apple pie.
    So he was even more gratified by the brief exchange that ended the dinner.
    It was nearly time to leave. Kate had done her best to entertain her cousin John. She’d asked him about how he passed his time, and discovered that he liked best to be down at the waterside, or better yet on a ship. By gentle probing, she had learned something more of his family’s business. Like other merchants of their kind, the New York Masters engaged in a wide range of activities. Besides owning several vessels, they had a thriving store, they made rum, albeit with illegal molasses, and even undertook to insure other merchant ships. He did not use many words, and spoke quietly, but once or twice he looked at her directly, and it was all she could do not to blush as she gazed into his eyes, which were as blue as the sky. Whether he liked her, however, she had no idea.
    Before they rose from the table, Dirk Master made her father promise that he would come to visit them again while in New York, and she was glad that her father politely said that he would.
    “You’ll be at the court for the whole trial?” the merchant asked.
    “From the beginning to the end.”
    “And Miss Kate?” their host inquired.
    “Oh, indeed,” she said enthusiastically. “My father is concerned with royal tyranny, but I have come to support the freedom of the press.” Her father smiled.
    “My daughter is of the same opinion as the poet: ‘As good almost kill a man as kill a good book.’”
    It was the sort of quotation that, in their Boston