Doctor Hilliard, my grandfather's chaplain, was as holy a man as ever
wore a gown, but I can remember none of his discourses which moved me
as much by half as those simple words Captain Clapsaddle had used. The
worthy doctor, who had baptized both my mother and father, died suddenly
at Carvel Hall the spring following, of a cold contracted while visiting
a poor man who dwelt across the river. He would have lacked but three
years of fourscore come Whitsuntide. He was universally loved and
respected in that district where he had lived so long and ably, by
rich and poor alike, and those of many creeds saw him to his last
resting-place. Mr. Carroll, of Carrollton, who was an ardent Catholic,
stood bareheaded beside the grave.
Doctor Hilliard was indeed a beacon in a time when his profession among
us was all but darkness, and when many of the scandals of the community
might be laid at the door of those whose duty it was to prevent them.
The fault lay without doubt in his Lordship's charter, which gave to the
parishioners no voice in the choosing of their pastors. This matter was
left to Lord Baltimore's whim. Hence it was that he sent among us
so many fox-hunting and gaming parsons who read the service ill and
preached drowsy and illiterate sermons. Gaming and fox-hunting, did
I say? These are but charitable words to cover the real characters of
those impostors in holy orders, whose doings would often bring the
blush of shame to your cheeks. Nay, I have seen a clergyman drunk in the
pulpit, and even in those freer days their laxity and immorality
were such that many flocked to hear the parsons of the Methodists and
Lutherans, whose simple and eloquent words and simpler lives were worthy
of their cloth. Small wonder was it, when every strolling adventurer and
soldier out of employment took orders and found favour in his Lordship's
eyes, and were given the fattest livings in place of worthier men, that
the Established Church fell somewhat into disrepute. Far be it from me
to say that there were not good men and true in that Church, but the wag
who writ this verse, which became a common saying in Maryland, was not
far wrong for the great body of them:--
“Who is a monster of the first renown?
A lettered sot, a drunkard in a gown.”
My grandfather did not replace Dr. Hilliard at the Hall, afterwards
saying the prayers himself. The doctor had been my tutor, and in spite
of my waywardness and lack of love for the classics had taught me
no little Latin and Greek, and early instilled into my mind those
principles necessary for the soul's salvation. I have often thought with
regret on the pranks I played him. More than once at lesson-time have I
gone off with Hugo and young Harvey for a rabbit hunt, stealing two dogs
from the pack, and thus committing a double offence. You may be sure
I was well thrashed by Mr. Carvel, who thought the more of the latter
misdoing, though obliged to emphasize the former. The doctor would never
raise his hand against me. His study, where I recited my daily tasks,
was that small sunny room on the water side of the east wing; and I well
recall him as he sat behind his desk of a morning after prayers, his
horn spectacles perched on his high nose and his quill over his ear,
and his ink-powder and pewter stand beside him. His face would grow more
serious as I scanned my Virgil in a faltering voice, and as he descanted
on a passage my eye would wander out over the green trees and fields to
the glistening water. What cared I for “Arma virumque” at such a time? I
was watching Nebo a-fishing beyond the point, and as he waded ashore
the burden on his shoulders had a much keener interest for me than that
AEneas carried out of Troy.
My Uncle Grafton came to Dr. Hilliard's funeral, choosing this
opportunity to become reconciled to my grandfather, who he feared had
not much longer to live. Albeit Mr. Carvel was as stout and hale as
ever. None of the mourners at the doctor's grave showed more sorrow than
did Grafton. A thousand remembrances of the good old man returned to
him, and I heard him telling Mr. Carroll and some other gentlemen, with
much emotion, how he had loved his reverend preceptor, from whom he had
learned nothing but what was good. “How fortunate are you, Richard,”
he once said, “to have had such a spiritual and intellectual teacher in
your youth. Would that Philip might have learned from such a one. And
I trust you can say, my lad, that you have made the best of your
advantages, though I fear you are of a wild nature, as your father was
before you.” And my uncle sighed and crossed his hands behind his back.
“'Tis perhaps better that poor John is in his grave,” he said. Grafton
had a word and a smile for every one about the old place, but little
else, being, as he said, but a younger son and a poor man. I was near
to forgetting the shilling he gave Scipio. 'Twas not so unostentatiously
done but that Mr. Carvel and I marked it. And afterwards I made Scipio
give me the coin, replacing it with another, and flung it as far into
the river as ever I could throw.
As was but proper to show his sorrow at the death of the old chaplain he
had loved so much, Grafton came to the Hall drest entirely in black. He
would have had his lady and Philip, a lad near my own age, clad likewise
in sombre colours. But my Aunt Caroline would none of them, holding it
to be the right of her sex to dress as became its charms. Her silks and
laces went but ill with the low estate my uncle claimed for his purse,
and Master Philip's wardrobe was twice the size of mine. And the family
travelled in a coach as grand as Mr. Carvel's own, with panels wreathed
in flowers and a footman and outrider in livery, from which my aunt
descended like a duchess. She embraced my grandfather with much warmth,
and kissed me effusively on both cheeks.
“And this is dear Richard?” she cried. “Philip, come at once and greet
your cousin. He has not the look of the Carvels,” she continued volubly,
“but more resembles his mother, as I recall her.”
“Indeed, madam,” my grandfather answered somewhat testily, “he has
the Carvel nose and mouth, though his chin is more pronounced. He has
Elizabeth's eyes.”
But my aunt was a woman who flew from one subject to another, and she
had already ceased to think of me. She was in the hall. “The dear old
home?” she cries, though she had been in it but once before, regarding
lovingly each object as her eye rested upon it, nay, caressingly when
she came to the great punch-bowl and the carved mahogany dresser, and
the Peter Lely over the broad fireplace. “What memories they must bring
to your mind, my dear,” she remarks to her husband. “'Tis cruel, as I
once said to dear papa, that we cannot always live under the old rafters
we loved so well as children.” And the good lady brushes away a tear
with her embroidered pocket-napkin. Tears that will come in spite of
us all. But she brightens instantly and smiles at the line of servants
drawn up to welcome them. “This is Scipio, my son, who was with your
grandfather when your father was born, and before.” Master Philip nods
graciously in response to Scipio's delighted bow. “And Harvey,” my
aunt rattles on. “Have you any new mares to surprise us with this year,
Harvey?” Harvey not being as overcome with Mrs. Grafton's condescension
as was proper, she turns again to Mr. Carvel.
“Ah, father, I see you are in sore need of a woman's hand about the old
house. What a difference a touch makes, to be sure.” And she takes off
her gloves and attacks the morning room, setting an ornament here and
another there, and drawing back for the effect. “Such a bachelor's hall
as you are keeping!”
“We still have Willis, Caroline,” remonstrates my grandfather, gravely.
“I have no fault to find with her housekeeping.”
“Of course not, father; men never notice,” Aunt Caroline replies in an
aggrieved tone. And when Willis herself comes in, auguring no good from
this visit, my aunt gives her the tips of her fingers. And I imagine I
see a spark fly between them.
As for Grafton, he was more than willing to let bygones be bygones
between his father and himself. Aunt Caroline said with feeling that
Dr. Hilliard's death was a blessing, after all, since it brought a
long-separated father and son together once more. Grafton had been
misjudged and ill-used, and he called Heaven to witness that the quarrel
had never been of his seeking,--a statement which Mr. Carvel was at no
pains to prove perjury. How attentive was Mr. Grafton to his father's
every want. He read his Gazette to him of a Thursday, though the old
gentleman's eyes are as good as ever. If Mr. Carvel walks out of an
evening, Grafton's arm is ever ready, and my uncle and his worthy lady
are eager to take a hand at cards before supper. “Philip, my dear,”
says my aunt, “thy grandfather's slippers,” or, “Philip, my love, thy
grandfather's hat and cane.” But it is plain that Master Philip has not
been brought up to wait on his elders. He is curled with a novel in his
grandfather's easy chair by the window. “There is Dio, mamma, who has
naught to do but serve grandpapa,” says he, and gives a pull at the cord
over his head which rings the bell about the servants' ears in the hall
below. And Dio, the whites of his eyes showing, comes running into the
room.
“It is nothing, Diomedes,” says Mr. Carvel. “Master Philip will fetch
what I need.”. Master Philip's papa and mamma stare at each other in
a surprise mingled with no little alarm, Master Philip being to all
appearances intent upon his book.
“Philip,” says my grandfather, gently. I had more than once heard him
speak thus, and well knew what was coming.
“Sir,” replies my cousin, without looking up. “Follow me, sir,” said Mr.
Carvel, in a voice so different that Philip drops his book. They went up
the stairs together, and what occurred there I leave to the imagination.
But when next Philip was bidden to do an errand for Mr. Carvel my
grandfather said quietly: “I prefer that Richard should go, Caroline.”
And though my aunt and uncle, much mortified, begged him to give Philip
another chance, he would never permit it.
Nevertheless, a great effort was made to restore Philip to his
grandfather's good graces. At breakfast one morning, after my aunt had
poured Mr. Carvel's tea and made her customary compliment to the blue
and gold breakfast china, my Uncle Grafton spoke up.
“Now that Dr. Hilliard is gone, father, what do you purpose concerning
Richard's schooling?”
“He shall go to King William's school in the autumn,” Mr. Carvel
replied.
“In the autumn!” cried my uncle. “I do not give Philip even the short
holiday of this visit. He has his Greek and his Virgil every day.”
“And can repeat the best passages,” my aunt chimes in. “Philip, my dear,
recite that one your father so delights in.”
However unwilling Master Philip had been to disturb himself for errands,
he was nothing loth to show his knowledge, and recited glibly enough
several lines of his Virgil verbatim; thereby pleasing his fond parents
greatly and my grandfather not a little.
“I will add a crown to your savings, Philip,” says his father.
“And here is a pistole to spend as you will,” says Mr. Carvel, tossing
him the piece.
“Nay, father, I do not encourage the lad to be a spendthrift,” says
Grafton, taking the pistole himself. “I will place this token of your
appreciation in his strong-box. You know we have a prodigal strain in
the family, sir.” And my uncle looks at me significantly.
“Let it be as I say, Grafton,” persists Mr. Carvel, who liked not to be
balked in any matter, and was not over-pleased at this reference to my
father. And he gave Philip forthwith another pistole, telling his father
to add the first to his saving if he would.
“And Richard must have his chance,” says my Aunt Caroline, sweetly, as
she rises to leave the room.
“Ay, here is a crown for you, Richard,” says my uncle, smiling. “Let us
hear your Latin, which should be purer than Philip's.”
My grandfather glanced uneasily at me across the table; he saw clearly
the trick Grafton had played me, I think. But for once I was equal to
my uncle, and haply remembered a line Dr. Hilliard had expounded, which
fitted the present case marvellously well. With little ceremony I tossed
back the crown, and slowly repeated those words used to warn the Trojans
against accepting the Grecian horse:
“Timeo Danaos et dona ferentes.”
“Egad,” cried Mr. Carvel, slapping his knee, “the lad bath beaten you on
your own ground, Grafton.” And he laughed as my grandfather only could
laugh, until the dishes rattled on the table. But my uncle thought it no
matter for jesting.
Philip was also well versed in politics for a lad of his age, and could
discuss glibly the right of Parliament to tax the colonies. He denounced
the seditious doings in Annapolis and Boston Town with an air of easy
familiarity, for Philip had the memory of a parrot, and 'twas easy to
perceive whence his knowledge sprang. But when my fine master spoke
disparagingly of the tradesmen as at the bottom of the trouble, my
grandfather's patience came to an end.
“And what think you lies beneath the wealth and power of England,
Philip?” he asked.
“Her nobility, sir, and the riches she draws from her colonies,” retorts
Master Philip, readily enough.
“Not so,” Mr. Carvel said gravely. “She owes her greatness to her
merchants, or tradesmen, as you choose to call them. And commerce must
be at the backbone of every great nation. Tradesmen!” exclaimed my
grandfather. “Where would any of us be were it not for trade? We sell
our tobacco and our wheat, and get money in return. And your father
makes a deal here and a deal there, and so gets rich in spite of his
pittance.”
My Uncle Grafton raised his hand to protest, but Mr. Carvel continued:
“I know you, Grafton, I know you. When a lad it was your habit to lay
aside the money I gave you, and so pretend you had none.”
“And 'twas well I learned then to be careful,” said my uncle, losing
for the instant his control, “for you loved the spend-thrift best, and I
should be but a beggar now without my wisdom.”
“I loved not John's carelessness with money, but other qualities in him
which you lacked,” answered Mr. Carvel.
Grafton shot a swift glance at me; and so much of malice and of hatred
was conveyed in that look that with a sense of prophecy I shuddered
to think that some day I should have to cope with such craft. For he
detested me threefold, and combined the hate he bore my dead father and
mother with the ill-will he bore me for standing in his way and Philip's
with my grandfather's property. But so deftly could he hide his feelings
that he was smiling again instantly. To see once, however, the white
belly of the shark flash on the surface of the blue water is sufficient.
“I beg of you not to jest of me before the lads, father,” said Grafton.
“God knows there was little jest in what I said,” replied Mr. Carvell
soberly, “and I care not who hears it. Your own son will one day know
you well enough, if he does not now. Do not imagine, because I am old,
that I am grown so foolish as to believe that a black sheep can become
white save by dye. And dye will never deceive such as me. And Philip,”
the shrewd old gentleman went on, turning to my cousin, “do not let thy
father or any other make thee believe there cannot be two sides to every
question. I recognize in your arguments that which smacks of his tongue,
despite what he says of your reading the public prints and of forming
your own opinions. And do not condemn the Whigs, many of whom are worthy
men and true, because they quarrel with what they deem an unjust method
of taxation.”
Grafton had given many of the old servants cause to remember him. Harvey
in particular, who had come from England early in the century with my
grandfather, spoke with bitterness of him. On the subject of my uncle,
the old coachman's taciturnity gave way to torrents of reproach. “Beware
of him as has no use for horses, Master Richard,” he would say; for this
trait in Grafton in Harvey's mind lay at the bottom of all others. At
my uncle's approach he would retire into his shell like an oyster,
nor could he be got to utter more than a monosyllable in his presence.
Harvey's face would twitch, and his fingers clench of themselves as
he touched his cap. And with my Aunt Caroline he was the same. He
vouchsafed but a curt reply to all her questions, nor did her raptures
over the stud soften him in the least. She would come tripping into the
stable yard, daintily holding up her skirts, and crying, “Oh, Harvey,
I have heard so much of Tanglefoot. I must see him before I go.”
Tanglefoot is led out begrudgingly enough, and Aunt Caroline goes over
his points, missing the greater part of them, and remarking on the depth
of chest, which is nothing notable in Tanglefoot. Harvey winks slyly
at me the while, and never so much as offers a word of correction. “You
must take Philip to ride, Richard, my dear,” says my aunt. “His father
was never as fond of it as I could have wished. I hold that every
gentleman should ride to hounds.”
“Humph!” grunts Harvey, when she is gone to the house.
“Master Philip to hunt, indeed! Foxes to hunt foxes!” And he gives vent
to a dry laugh over his joke, in which I cannot but join. “Horsemen
grows. Eh, Master Richard? There was Captain Jack, who jumped from the
cradle into the saddle, and I never once seen a horse get the better
o' him. And that's God's truth.” And he smooths out Tanglefoot's mane,
adding reflectively, “And you be just like him. But there was scarce a
horse in the stables what wouldn't lay back his ears at Mr. Grafton, and
small blame to 'em, say I. He never dared go near 'em. Oh, Master
Philip comes by it honestly enough. She thinks old Harvey don't know a
thoroughbred when he sees one, sir. But Mrs. Grafton's no thoroughbred;
I tell 'ee that, though I'm saying nothing as to her points, mark ye.
I've seen her sort in the old country, and I've seen 'em here, and it's
the same the world over, in Injy and Chiny, too. Fine trappings don't
make the horse, and they don't take thoroughbreds from a grocer's cart.
A Philadelphy grocer,” sniffs this old aristocrat. “I'd knowed her
father was a grocer had I seen her in Pall Mall with a Royal Highness,
by her gait, I may say. Thy mother was a thoroughbred, Master Richard,
and I'll tell 'ee another,” he goes on with a chuckle, “Mistress Dorothy
Manners is such another; you don't mistake 'em with their high heads
and patreeshan ways, though her father be one of them accidents as will
occur in every stock. She's one to tame, sir, and I don't envy no young
gentleman the task. But this I knows,” says Harvey, not heeding my red
cheeks, “that Master Philip, with all his satin small-clothes, will
never do it.”
Indeed, it was no secret that my Aunt Caroline had been a Miss Flaven,
of Philadelphia, though she would have had the fashion of our province
to believe that she belonged to the Governor's set there; and she spoke
in terms of easy familiarity of the first families of her native city,
deceiving no one save herself, poor lady. How fondly do we believe, with
the ostrich, that our body is hidden when our head is tucked under
our wing! Not a visitor in Philadelphia but knew Terence Flaven, Mrs.
Grafton Carvel's father, who not many years since sold tea and spices
and soap and glazed teapots over his own counter, and still advertised
his cargoes in the public prints. He was a broad and charitable-minded
man enough, and unassuming, but gave way at last to the pressure brought
upon him by his wife and daughter, and bought a mansion in Front Street.
Terence Flaven never could be got to stay there save to sleep, and
preferred to spend his time in his shop, which was grown greatly,
chatting with his customers, and bowing the ladies to their chariots.
I need hardly say that this worthy man was on far better terms than
his family with those personages whose society they strove so hard to
attain.
At the time of Miss Flaven's marriage to my uncle 'twas a piece of
gossip in every month that he had taken her for her dower, which was not
inconsiderable; though to hear Mr. and Mrs. Grafton talk they knew not
whence the next month's provender was to come. They went to live in Kent
County, as I have said, spending some winters in Philadelphia, where
Mr. Grafton was thought to have interests, though it never could be
discovered what his investments were. On hearing of his marriage, which
took place shortly before my father's, Mr. Carvel expressed neither
displeasure nor surprise. But he would not hear of my mother's request
to settle a portion upon his younger son.
“He has the Kent estate, Bess,” said he, “which is by far too good for
him. Never doubt but that the rogue can feather his own nest far better
than can I, as indeed he hath already done. And by the Lord,” cried Mr.
Carvel, bringing his fist down upon the card-table where they sat,
“he shall never get another farthing of my money while I live, nor
afterwards, if I can help it! I would rather give it over to Mr. Carroll
to found a nunnery.”
And so that matter ended, for Mr. Carvel could not be moved from a
purpose he had once made. Nor would he make any advances whatsoever to
Grafton, or receive those hints which my uncle was forever dropping,
until at length he begged to be allowed to come to Dr. Hilliard's
funeral, a request my grandfather could not in decency refuse. 'Twas a
pathetic letter in truth, and served its purpose well, though it was not
as dust in the old gentleman's eyes. He called me into his bedroom and
told me that my Uncle Grafton was coming at last. And seeing that I
said nothing thereto, he gave me a queer look and bade me treat them as
civilly as I knew how. “I well know thy temper, Richard,” said he, “and
I fear 'twill bring thee trouble enough in life. Try to control it, my
lad; take an old man's advice and try to control it.” He was in one of
his gentler moods, and passed his arm about me, and together we stood
looking silently through the square panes out into the rain, at the
ducks paddling in the puddles until the darkness hid them.
And God knows, lad that I was, I tried to be civil to them. But my
tongue rebelled at the very sight of my uncle ['twas bred into me, I
suppose), and his fairest words seemed to me to contain a hidden sting.
Once, when he spoke in his innuendo of my father, I ran from the room to
restrain some act of violence; I know not what I should have done. And
Willis found me in the deserted, study of the doctor, where my hot tears
had stained the flowered paper on the wall. She did her best to calm
me, good soul, though she had her own troubles with my Lady Caroline to
think about at the time.
I had one experience with Master Philip before our visitors betook
themselves back to Kent, which, unfortunate as it was, I cannot but
relate here. My cousin would enter into none of those rough amusements
in which I passed my time, for fear, I took it, of spoiling his fine
broadcloths or of losing a gold buckle. He never could be got to
wrestle, though I challenged him more than once. And he was a well-built
lad, and might, with a little practice, have become skilled in that
sport. He laughed at the homespun I wore about the farm, saying it
was no costume for a gentleman's son, and begged me sneeringly to don
leather breeches. He would have none of the company of those lads with
whom I found pleasure, young Harvey, and Willis's son, who was being
trained as Mr. Starkie's assistant. Nor indeed did I disdain to join in
a game with Hugo, who had been given to me, and other negro lads. Philip
saw no sport in a wrestle or a fight between two of the boys from the
quarters, and marvelled that I could lower myself to bet with Harvey the
younger. He took not a spark of interest in the gaming cocks we raised
together to compete at the local contests and at the fair, and knew
not a gaff from a cockspur. Being one day at my wits' end to amuse
my cousin, I proposed to him a game of quoits on the green beside the
spring-house, and thither we repaired, followed by Hugo, and young
Harvey come to look on. Master Philip, not casting as well as he might,
cries out suddenly to Hugo: “Begone, you black dog! What business have
you here watching a game between gentlemen?”
“He is my servant, cousin,” I said quietly, “and no dog, if you please.
And he is under my orders, not yours.”
But Philip, having scarcely scored a point, was in a rage. “And I'll
not have him here,” he shouted, giving poor Hugo a cuff which sent him
stumbling over the stake. And turning to me; continued insolently: “Ever
since we came here I have marked your manner toward us, as though my
father had no right in my grandfather's house.”
Then could I no longer contain myself. I heard young Harvey laugh, and
remark: “'Tis all up with Master Philip now.” But Philip, whatever else
he may have been, was no coward, and had squared off to face me by the
time I had run the distance between the stakes. He was heavier than I,
though not so tall; and he parried my first blow and my second, and many
more; having lively work of it, however, for I hit him as often as I was
able. To speak truth, I had not looked for such resistance, and seeing
that I could not knock him down, out of hand, I grew more cool and began
to study what I was doing.
“Take off your macaroni coat,” said I. “I have no wish to ruin your
clothes.”
But he only jeered in return: “Take off thy wool-sack.” And Hugo,
getting to his feet, cried out to me not to hurt Marse Philip, that he
had meant no harm. But this only enraged Philip the more, and he swore
a round oath at Hugo and another at me, and dealt a vicious blow at my
stomach, whereat Harvey called out to him to fight fair. He was more
skilful at the science of boxing than I, though I was the better
fighter, having, I am sorry to say, fought but too often before. And
presently, when I had closed one of his eyes, his skill went all to
pieces, and he made a mad rush at me. As he went by I struck him so hard
that he fell heavily and lay motionless.
Young Harvey ran into the spring-house and filled his hat as I bent over
my cousin. I unbuttoned his waistcoat and felt his heart, and rejoiced
to find it beating; we poured cold water over his face and wrists. By
then, Hugo, who was badly frightened, had told the news in the house,
and I saw my Aunt Caroline come running over the green as fast as her
tight stays would permit, crying out that I had killed her boy, her dear
Philip. And after her came my Uncle Grafton and my grandfather, with all
the servants who had been in hearing. I was near to crying myself at the
thought that I should grieve my grandfather. And my aunt, as she knelt
over Philip, pushed me away, and bade me not touch him. But my cousin
opened one of his eyes, and raised his hand to his head.
“Thank Heaven he is not killed!” exclaims Aunt Caroline, fervently.
“Thank God, indeed!” echoes my uncle, and gives me a look as much as to
say that I am not to be thanked for it. “I have often warned you, sir,”
he says to Mr. Carvel, “that we do not inherit from stocks and stones.
And so much has come of our charity.”
I knew, lad that I was; that he spoke of my mother; and my blood boiled
within me.
“Have a care, sir, with your veiled insults,” I cried, “or I will serve
you as I have served your son.”
Grafton threw up his hands.
“What have we harboured, father?” says he. But Mr. Carvel seized him by
the shoulder. “Peace, Grafton, before the servants,” he said, “and cease
thy crying, Caroline. The lad is not hurt.” And being a tall man, six
feet in his stockings, and strong despite his age, he raised Philip from
the grass, and sternly bade him walk to the house, which he did, leaning
on his mother's arm. “As for you, Richard,” my grandfather went on, “you
will go into my study.”
Into his study I went, where presently he came also, and I told him
the affair in as few words as I might. And he, knowing my hatred of
falsehood, questioned me not at all, but paced to and fro, I following
him with my eyes, and truly sorry that I had given him pain. And finally
he dismissed me, bidding me make it up with my cousin, which I was
nothing loth to do. What he said to Philip and his father I know not.
That evening we shook hands, though Philip's face was much swollen, and
my uncle smiled, and was even pleasanter than before, saying that boys
would be boys. But I think my Aunt Caroline could never wholly hide the
malice she bore me for what I had done that day.
When at last the visitors were gone, every face on the plantation wore
a brighter look. Harvey said: “God bless their backs, which is the only
part I ever care to see of their honours.” And Willis gave us a supper
fit for a king. Mr. Lloyd and his lady were with us, and Mr. Carvel told
his old stories of the time of the First George, many of which I can
even now repeat: how he and two other collegians fought half a dozen
Mohocks in Norfolk Street, and fairly beat them; and how he discovered
by chance a Jacobite refugee in Greenwich, and what came of it; nor did
he forget that oft-told episode with Dean Swift. And these he rehearsed
in such merry spirit and new guise that we scarce recognized them, and
Colonel Lloyd so choked with laughter that more than once he had to be
hit between the shoulders.