“He rarely read, but he would pace the great piazza for hours, with his hands sunken in the pockets of his dressing-gown, and an air of sweet reverie, which any author might be very happy to produce.

“Society, of course, he saw little.  There was some slight apprehension that if he were bidden to social entertainments he might forget his coat, or arrive without some other essential part of his dress; and there is a sly tradition in the Titbottom family that, having been invited to a ball in honor of the new governor of the island, my grandfather Titbottom sauntered into the hall towards midnight, wrapped in the gorgeous flowers of his dressing-gown, and with his hands buried in the pockets, as usual.  There was great excitement, and immense deprecation of gubernatorial ire.  But it happened that the governor and my grandfather were old friends, and there was no offense.  But as they were conversing together, one of the distressed managers cast indignant glances at the brilliant costume of my grandfather, who summoned him, and asked courteously: 

“‘Did you invite me or my coat?’

“‘You, in a proper coat,’ replied the manager.

“The governor smiled approvingly, and looked at my grandfather.

“’My friend,” said he to the manager, ‘I beg your pardon, I forgot.’

“The next day my grandfather was seen promenading in full ball dress along the streets of the little town.

“‘They ought to know,’ said he, ’that I have a proper coat, and that not contempt nor poverty, but forgetfulness, sent me to a ball in my dressing-gown.’

“He did not much frequent social festivals after this failure, but he always told the story with satisfaction and a quiet smile.

“To a stranger, life upon those little islands is uniform even to weariness.  But the old native dons like my grandfather ripen in the prolonged sunshine, like the turtle upon the Bahama banks, nor know of existence more desirable.  Life in the tropics I take to be a placid torpidity.  During the long, warm mornings of nearly half a century, my grandfather Titbottom had sat in his dressing-gown and gazed at the sea.  But one calm June day, as he slowly paced the piazza after breakfast, his dreamy glance was arrested by a little vessel, evidently nearing the shore.  He called for his spyglass, and surveying the craft, saw that she came from the neighboring island.  She glided smoothly, slowly, over the summer sea.  The warm morning air was sweet with perfumes, and silent with heat.  The sea sparkled languidly, and the brilliant blue hung cloudlessly over.  Scores of little island vessels had my grandfather seen come over the horizon, and cast anchor in the port.  Hundreds of summer mornings had the white sails flashed and faded, like vague faces through forgotten dreams.  But this time he laid down the spyglass, and leaned against a column of the piazza, and watched the vessel with an intentness that he could not explain.  She came nearer and nearer, a graceful spectre in the dazzling morning.