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│ octor Hilliard, my grandfather's chaplain, │
│ was as holy a man as ever wore a gown, │
│ though I can remember none of his discourses. │
│ │
│ The worthy doctor, who had baptized both my │
│ mother and father, died suddenly at Carvel Hall │
│ in the spring following the Stamp Act riots, of │
│ a cold contracted while visiting a poor man who │
│ │
│ │
│ │
│ dwelt across the Severn. │
│ │
│ He would have lacked but three years of │
│ fourscore come Whitsuntide, and he was │
│ universally respected, by rich and poor alike, │
│ in that district where he had lived so long and │
│ ably. │
│ │
│ 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. Rather, this │
│ matter was left to Lord Baltimore's whim. Hence │
│ │
│ │
│ │
│ it was that he sent among us many fox-hunting │
│ and gaming parsons who read the service ill and │
│ preached drowsy and illiterate sermons. These │
│ are but charitable words to cover the real │
│ characters of those impostors in holy orders. │
│ │
│ Nay, I have seen a clergyman drunk in the │
│ pulpit, and even in those freer days the │
│ clergy's laxity and immorality were such that │
│ many flocked to hear the parsons of the │
│ Methodists and the Lutherans, whose simple and │
│ eloquent words and simpler lives were worthy of │
│ their cloth. │
│ │
│ │
│ y Uncle Grafton came to Dr. Hilliard's │
│ funeral, and, as was but proper, he came │
│ to the Hall drest entirely in black. And he │
│ │
│ │
│ │
│ would have had his lady and Philip, a lad near │
│ my own age, clad likewise in sombre colours, │
│ but my Aunt Caroline would have none of this, │
│ holding it to be the right of her sex to dress │
│ as became its charms. │
│ │
│ Still, her silks and laces went but ill with │
│ the low estate my uncle liked to claim for his │
│ purse. And, in truth, 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. │
│ │
│ │
│ rafton had given many of my grandfather's │
│ old servants cause to remember him. │
│ Harvey in particular, who had come back 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 he has no use for horses, │
│ Master Richard," he would say--for this trait of │
│ Uncle 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. │
│ │
│ │
│ │
│ "Humph!" grunted Harvey, │
│ when she was gone to the │
│ house. "She thinks old │
│ Harvey don't know a thorough- │
│ bred when he sees one, Master │
│ Richard. But Mrs. Grafton's │
│ no such--I tell 'ee that. │
│ │
│ "I've seen her sort in │
│ the old country, and I've │
│ seen 'em here, and it's the │
│ same the world over. Fine │
│ trappings don't make the │
│ horse, and they don't take │
│ thorough-breds from a │
│ grocer's cart." │
│ │
│ "A Philadelphy grocer," sniffed the old │
│ │
│ │
│ │
│ aristocrat, "I'd knowed her father was a grocer │
│ had I seen her in Pall Mall with a Royal High- │
│ ness; by her gait, I may say." │
│ │
│ 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 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. │
│ │
│ Not a visitor to Philadelphia but knew │
│ Terence Flaven, Mrs. Grafton Carvel's father, │
│ who not many years before had sold tea and │
│ spices and soap and glazed teapots over his own │
│ counter, and still advertised his cargoes in the │
│ │
│ │
│ │
│ public prints. │
│ │
│ │
│ t the time of Miss Flaven's marriage to my │
│ uncle, 'twas a piece of gossip in every │
│ mouth that he had taken her for her dower, which │
│ was not inconsiderable. But to hear Mr. and Mrs. │
│ Grafton talk, they knew not wence the next │
│ month's provender was to come. │
│ │
│ They went to live in Kent County, spending │
│ some winters in Philadelphia, where 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," he said, │
│ "which is more than enough for him. And by the │
│ Lord, he shall have no more while I live, nor │
│ afterwards if I can help it!" │
│ │
│ And so that matter ended, for Mr. Carvel │
│ could not be moved from a purpose he had once │
│ made. Grafton was clearly not my grandfather's │
│ favourite, and I sometimes thought he was of a │
│ mind with Harvey about him. │
│ │
│ My grandfather would not make any advances │
│ whatsoever to Grafton, or receive those hints │
│ which he was forever dropping, until at length │
│ Grafton begged to be allowed to come to Dr. │
│ │
│ │
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│ Hilliard's funeral, a request my grandfather │
│ could not in decency refuse. │
│ │
│ During his stay, I tried to │
│ be civil to him. But my uncle's │
│ fairest words seemed to me to │
│ contain a sting of hidden │
│ resentment. │
│ │
│ And once, when he spoke in │
│ innuendo of my father, I ran │
│ from the room to a deserted │
│ study, where my tears flowed │
│ freely. │
│ │
│ I know not what strange │
│ intuition of the child made me │
│ think of him so constantly │
│ │
│ │
│ │
│ after that visit; and yet I sometimes would wake │
│ from my sleep, with his name upon my lips. │
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│ ______ │
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│ n the eighteenth century, the march of │
│ public events was much more eagerly │
│ followed than now by men and women of all │
│ stations, and even children. │
│ │
│ Each citizen was ready, nay, forward, in │
│ taking an active part in all political │
│ movements, and the children mimicked their │
│ │
│ │
│ │
│ elders. │
│ │
│ Thus, old William Farris read his news of a │
│ morning before he began the mending of his │
│ watches, and by evening had so well digested it │
│ that he was primed for discussion with Pryse, of │
│ the opposite persuasion, at the "Rose and │
│ Crown." │
│ │
│ Sol Mogg, the sexton of St. Anne's, had his │
│ beloved Gazette in his pocket as he tolled the │
│ church bell of a Thursday, and would hold forth │
│ on the rights and liberties of man with the │
│ carpenter who mended the steeple. │
│ │
│ Mrs. Willard could talk of Grenville and │
│ Townshend as knowingly as her husband, the rich │
│ factor, and Francie Willard made many a speech │
│ │
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│ to us younger Sons of Liberty on the steps of │
│ King William's School. │
│ │
│ We younger sons, indeed, declared bitter war │
│ against the mother-country long before our │
│ conservative old province ever dreamed of │
│ secession. For Maryland was for the most part │
│ well pleased with his Lordship's government. │
│ │
│ │
│ fear that I got at King William's School │
│ learning of a far different sort than │
│ pleased my grandfather. │
│ │
│ In those days the school stood upon the Stadt │
│ House hill near School Street, not having moved │
│ to its present larger quarters. Mr. Isaac │
│ Daaken was then master, and had under him some │
│ │
│ │
│ │
│ eighty scholars. │
│ │
│ After all these years, Mr. Daaken stands │
│ before me as a prominent figure of the past, │
│ and I recall that schoolroom of a bright │
│ morning, the sun's rays shot hither and thither, │
│ and split violet, green, and red by the bulging │
│ panes of the windows. │
│ │
│ And by a strange │
│ irony it so chanced │
│ that where the │
│ dominie sat--and he │
│ moved not the whole │
│ morning long save to │
│ reach for his │
│ birches--the crimson │
│ rays would often │
│ │
│ │
│ │
│ rest on the end of his long nose, and the word │
│ "rum" would be passed tittering along the │
│ benches. │
│ │
│ Some men are born to the mill, and others to │
│ the mitre, and still others to the sceptre; but │
│ Mr. Daaken was born to the birch. His long, │
│ lanky legs were made for striding after culprits, │
│ and his arms for caning them. │
│ │
│ He taught, along with caning, the classics, │
│ the English language grammatically, arithmetic │
│ in all its branches, book keeping in the Italian │
│ manner, and the elements of algebra, geometry, │
│ and trigonometry, with their applications to │
│ surveying and navigation. │
│ │
│ He also wrote various sorts of hands fearful │
│ │
│ │
│ │
│ and marvelous to the uninitiated, with which he │
│ was wont to decorate my monthly reports to my │
│ grandfather. │
│ │
│ I can shut my eyes and see │
│ even now that wonderful │
│ hyperbola in the C in │
│ Carvel, which, after │
│ traveling around the paper, │
│ ended in intricate curves and a │
│ flourish which surely must have broken the │
│ quill. │
│ │
│ The last day of every month I fetched that │
│ scrolled note to Mr. Carvel, and he laid it │
│ beside his plate until dinner was over. And │
│ then, as sure as the sun had risen that morning, │
│ my flogging would come before it set. │
│ │
│ │
│ │
│ This done with, and another promised the next │
│ month, provided Mr. Daaken wrote no better of me, │
│ my grandfather and I renewed our customary │
│ footing of love and companionship. │
│ │
│ │
│ ut Mr. Daaken, unwittingly or designedly, │
│ taught other things than those I have │
│ mentioned above. And though I never once heard │
│ a word of politics fall from his lips, his │
│ school shortly became known to all good Tories │
│ as a nursery of conspiracy and sedition. │
│ │
│ There are other ways of teaching besides │
│ preaching, and of that which the dominie taught │
│ best he spoke not a word. He was credited with │
│ calumnies against King George, and once my │
│ Uncle Grafton and Mr. Dulany were for clapping │
│ │
│ │
│ │
│ him in jail, avowing that he taught treason to │
│ the young. │
│ │
│ I can account for the tone of King William's │
│ School in no other way than to say that │
│ patriotism was in the very atmosphere, and │
│ seemed to exude in some mysterious way from Mr. │
│ Daaken's person. Most of us, indeed, became │
│ infected with it. │
│ │
│ │
│ also recall one bright day in April when │
│ I played truant and had the temerity to │
│ go afishing with Will Fotheringay on Spa Creek, │
│ the bass being plentiful there. │
│ │
│ We had royal sport of it that morning, and │
│ two o'clock came and went with never a thought. │
│ │
│ │
│ │
│ And presently I got a pull which bent my │
│ English rod near to double, and in my excitement │
│ plunged waist deep into the water, Will crying │
│ out directions from the shore. │
│ │
│ But all of a sudden the head of │
│ Mr. Daaken's mare thrust through │
│ the bushes, followed by Mr. Daaken │
│ himself. │
│ │
│ Will stood stock still from │
│ fright, and I was for dropping my │
│ rod and cutting, when the dominie called out, │
│ "Have a care, Master Carvel; have a care, sir. │
│ You will lose him. Play him, sir; let him run a │
│ bit." │
│ │
│ And down he leaped from his horse and into │
│ │
│ │
│ │
│ the water after me, and together we landed a │
│ three-pound bass, while drenching Mr. Daaken's │
│ snuff-coloured suit. │
│ │
│ When the big fish lay shining in the basket, │
│ the dominie smiled grimly at William and me, as │
│ we stood sheepishly by, and without a word he │
│ drew his clasp knife and cut a stout switch from │
│ the willow near by; and then and there he gave us │
│ such a thrashing as we remembered for many a day │
│ after. │
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│ And we both had another when we reached home. │
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│ r. Carvel," said Mr. Dulany to my │
│ grandfather, "I would strongly counsel │
│ you to take Richard from that school. │
│ Pernicious doctrines, sir, are in the air, and │
│ like diseases are early caught by the young. │
│ 'Twas but yesterday I saw Richard at the head │
│ of a rabble of the sons of riff-raff in Green │
│ Street, and their treatment of Mr. Fairbrother │
│ │
│ │
│ │
│ hath set the whole town by the ears." │
│ │
│ What Mr. Dulany said was true. The lads of │
│ Mr. Fairbrother's school being mostly of the │
│ unpopular party, we of King William's had │
│ organized our cohorts and led them on to a │
│ signal victory. │
│ │
│ We fell upon the enemy even as they were │
│ emerging from their stronghold, the schoolhouse, │
│ and smote them hip and thigh, with the sheriff │
│ of Anne Arundel County a laughing spectator. │
│ │
│ Some of the Tories took refuge behind Mr. │
│ Fairbrother's skirts, and he shook his cane │
│ angrily enough, but without avail. Others of │
│ the Tory brood fought stoutly, calling out, "God │
│ save the King!" and "Down with the traitors!" │
│ │
│ │
│ │
│ On our side, Francie Willard fell, and │
│ Archie Jennison raised a lump on my head. But │
│ we fairly beat them, and afterwards must needs │
│ attack the Tory dominie himself. │
│ │
│ │
│ ur schoolboy battle, though lightly │
│ undertaken, was fraught with no │
│ inconsiderable consequences for me. I was duly │
│ chided and soundly whipped by my grandfather for │
│ the part I had played. But he was inclined to │
│ pass the matter after that. │
│ │
│ And he would have gone no farther than this │
│ had it not been that Mr. Green, of the Maryland │
│ Gazette, could not refrain from printing the │
│ story in his paper. That gentleman, being a │
│ stout Whig, took great delight in pointing out │
│ │
│ │
│ │
│ that a grandson of Mr. Carvel was a ringleader │
│ in the affair. │
│ │
│ The story was indeed laughable enough, but │
│ when I came home from school, I found Scipio │
│ beside my grandfather's empty seat in the │
│ dining-room, and I learned that Mr. Carvel was │
│ in the garden with Uncle Grafton and the │
│ Reverend Bennett Allen, rector of St. Anne's. │
│ │
│ I well knew that something out of the common │
│ was in the wind to disturb my grandfather's │
│ dinner. │
│ │
│ Into the garden I went, and under the black │
│ walnut tree I beheld Mr. Carvel pacing up and │
│ down in great unrest, his Gazette in his hand, │
│ while on the bench sat my uncle and the Reverend │
│ │
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│ Allen. │
│ │
│ So occupied │
│ was each in his │
│ own thought that │
│ my coming was │
│ unperceived; and │
│ I paused in my │
│ steps, seized │
│ suddenly by an │
│ instinctive fear. │
│ │
│ I read plainly │
│ in Mr. Allen's handsome face, flushed red with │
│ wine as it ever was, and in my uncle's looks, a │
│ snare to which I knew my grandfather was blind. │
│ │
│ I never rightly understood how it was that │
│ │
│ │
│ │
│ Mr. Carvel was deceived in Mr. Allen--perchance │
│ the secret lay in his bold manner, and in the │
│ appearance of dignity and piety he wore as a │
│ cloak when on his guard. │
│ │
│ I caught my breath sharply and made my way │
│ toward them. It was my uncle, whose ear was │
│ ever open, who first heard my footstep and │
│ turned on me. │
│ │
│ "Here is Richard now, father," he said. │
│ │
│ My grandfather stopped in his pacing and │
│ his eye rested upon me, in sorrow rather than │
│ in anger, I thought. │
│ │
│ "Richard," he began, and paused. For the │
│ first time in my life I saw him irresolute. He │
│ │
│ │
│ │
│ looked in appeal at the rector, who rose. │
│ │
│ Mr. Allen was a man of fair height and good │
│ bearing. And he spoke solemnly, in a deep │
│ voice, as though from the pulpit: │
│ "I fear it is my duty, Richard, │
│ to say what Mr. Carvel cannot. │
│ It grieves me to tell you, sir, │
│ that young as you are, you have │
│ been guilty of treason against │
│ the King, and of grave offence │
│ against his Lordship's govern- │
│ ment. I cannot mitigate my │
│ words, sir. By your rashness, │
│ Richard, and I pray it is such, you have brought │
│ grief to your grandfather in his age, and │
│ ridicule and reproach upon a family whose loyalty │
│ has hitherto been unstained." │
│ │
│ │
│ │
│ "I fear he has little respect for his King or │
│ his country, sir," Grafton added. "You are now │
│ reaping the fruits of your indulgence." │
│ │
│ I turned to my grandfather. "Please tell me │
│ what I now stand accused of?" I said. And I │
│ almost cried. │
│ │
│ "Very fair words, indeed, nephew Richard," │
│ said my uncle, "and I draw from them that you │
│ have yet to hear of your beating an honest │
│ schoolmaster without other provocation than │
│ he was a loyal servant to the King, and your │
│ likewise wantonly injuring the children of his │
│ school." │
│ │
│ And he drew from his pocket a copy of that │
│ Gazette which Mr. Carvel had held. │
│ │
│ │
│ │
│ "Here, then, is news which will doubtless │
│ surprise you, sir," he said. "And knowing you │
│ for a peaceful lad, I dare swear the editor has │
│ drawn on his imagination." │
│ │
│ I took the paper in amazement, not knowing why │
│ my grandfather, who had ever been so jealous of │
│ others taking me to task, should permit the │
│ rector and my uncle to chide me in his presence. │
│ The account was in the main true enough, and │
│ made sad sport of Mr. Fairbrother. │
│ │
│ "Have I not been caned for this, sir?" I said, │
│ looking to my grandfather. │
│ │
│ "You have, Richard, and stoutly," he replied. │
│ "But your uncle and Mr. Allen seem to think that │
│ your offence warrants more than a caning, and │
│ │
│ │
│ │
│ deem that you have been actuated by bad │
│ principles rather than by boyish spirits." │
│ │
│ He paused to steady his voice, and I realized │
│ then for the first time how sacred he held │
│ allegiance to the King. │
│ │
│ "Tell me, my lad, tell │
│ me, as you love God and │
│ the truth, whether they are right." │
│ │
│ For the moment I shrank from speaking, seeing │
│ what a sad blow to Mr. Carvel my words would be. │
│ But then I spoke up--and caught the exulting │
│ look on my uncle's face, and the note of triumph │
│ in Mr. Allen's. │
│ │
│ "I have never deceived you, sir," I said, │
│ │
│ │
│ │
│ "and will not hide from you that I believe the │
│ Colonies to have a just cause against his │
│ Majesty and Parliament." │
│ │
│ The words came readily to my lips. "We are │
│ none the less Englishmen because we claim the │
│ rights of Englishmen, and we are as loyal as │
│ those who do not." │
│ │
│ My grandfather stood astonished at such a │
│ speech from me, whom he had thought a lad yet │
│ without a formed knowledge of public affairs. │
│ But I was, in fact, supersaturated with that of │
│ which I spoke, and could have given my hearers │
│ many Whig arguments to surprise them. │
│ │
│ There was silence for a space after I had │
│ finished, and then Mr. Carvel sank right heavily │
│ │
│ │
│ │
│ upon the bench. │
│ │
│ "A Carvel against the King!" was all he said. │
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│ ______ │
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│ nd so it was soon settled that I should │
│ be tutored by the rector of St. Anne's. │
│ │
│ To add to my troubles, my grandfather was │
│ shortly taken very ill with the first severe │
│ sickness he had ever had in his life. Dr. │
│ Leiden came and went sometimes thrice daily, │
│ and for a week he bore a look so grave as to │
│ │
│ │
│ │
│ frighten me. │
│ │
│ My uncle came as well. He appeared the first │
│ evening at supper, suave as ever, and gravely │
│ concerned as to his father's health, which │
│ formed the chief topic between us. │
│ │
│ And he gave me to understand that he would │
│ take the green room until the "old gentleman" │
│ was past danger--though not a word, mind you, │
│ of a wish to go into the sick-room itself. │
│ │
│ │
│ hile my Uncle Grafton was in the house, │
│ I had an opportunity of marking the │
│ intimacy which existed between him and the │
│ Reverend Allen. The latter swung each evening │
│ the muffled knocker, and was ushered on tiptoe │
│ │
│ │
│ │
│ across the polished floor to the library where │
│ my uncle sat in state. │
│ │
│ It was often well after supper before the │
│ rector left, and coming in upon them once I │
│ found wine between them and empty decanters on │
│ the board, and they fell silent as I passed. │
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│ y friend Captain Clapsaddle was away when │
│ my grandfather fell sick, having been │
│ North for three months on some business known to │
│ few. 'Twas generally supposed he went to │
│ Massachusetts to confer with the patriots of │
│ that colony. │
│ │
│ But hearing the news as he at last rode into │
│ town, he came booted and spurred to Marlboro' │
│ Street before going to his lodgings. │
│ │
│ I ran out to meet him, and Harvey, who always │
│ came to take the captain's horse, swore that he │
│ was glad to see a friend of the family once │
│ again. │
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│ I told the captain very freely of my doings, │
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│ and showed him the clipping from the Gazette, │
│ which made him laugh heartily. │
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│ But a shade came upon his face when I │
│ rehearsed the scene with my uncle and Mr. Allen │
│ in the garden. And he asked me much concerning │
│ the rector and what he taught me, and appeared │
│ ill-pleased at what I had to tell him. │
│ │
│ Yet he left me without so much as a word of │
│ comment or counsel. For Captain Clapsaddle │
│ would have deemed it unfair to Mr. Carvel had │
│ he attempted to win my sympathies to his. │
│ │
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│ efore my grandfather's illness, I was │
│ some three weeks with my new tutor, the │
│ rector, and I went back again as soon as Mr. │
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│ Carvel began to mend. │
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│ I was not altogether unhappy, owing to a │
│ certain grim pleasure I had in debating with │
│ him. But there was much to annoy and anger me, │
│ too. │
│ │
│ My cousin Philip was also there, and was │
│ forever carping and criticising my Greek and │
│ Latin. He had pat replies ready to correct me │
│ when called upon, and 'twas only out of │
│ consideration for Mr. Carvel that I kept my │
│ hands off of him when we were dismissed. │
│ │
│ I think the rector disliked Philip in his way │
│ as much as I did in mine. The Reverend Bennett │
│ Allen, indeed, might have been a very good │
│ fellow had Providence placed him in a different │
│ │
│ │
│ │
│ setting. │
│ │
│ He was one of those whom his Excellency the │
│ Governor dubbed "fools from necessity." He │
│ should have been born with a fortune, though I │
│ can think of none he would not have run through │
│ in a year or so. │
│ │
│ But nature had given him aristocratic tastes, │
│ with no other means toward their gratification │
│ than good looks, convincing ways, and a certain │
│ bold, half-defiant manner, which went far with │
│ Lord Baltimore and those like him--who thought │
│ Mr. Allen excellent good company. │
│ │
│ It was a sealed story what he had been before │
│ he came to Governor Sharpe with Baltimore's │
│ directions to give him the best in the colony. │
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│ But our rakes and wits, and even our solid men, │
│ like my grandfather, received him with open arms │
│ --and he had ever a tale on his tongue's end │
│ tempered to the ear of his listener. │
│ │
│ │
│ n our debates, I could more than hold my │
│ own with Reverend Allen, and he was, as a │
│ consequence, always curious to know from whom I │
│ got my ideas. │
│ │
│ That gentleman was, in truth, Mr. Henry │
│ Swain, a rising barrister and man of note among │
│ our patriots, and a member of the Lower House. │
│ │
│ A diffident man in public, with dark, soulful │
│ eyes, he had declined a nomination to the │
│ Congress of '65. │
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│ At his fireside, │
│ unknown to my grandfather │
│ and Mr. Allen, I learned │
│ my principles of government. │
│ │
│ He had been my friend │
│ since childhood, but I │
│ never knew the meaning │
│ and the fire of oratory │
│ until curiosity brought │
│ me to the gallery of │
│ the Assembly chamber in │
│ the Stadt House, where │
│ the barrister was on his │
│ feet at the time. │
│ │
│ In the House, Mr. │
│ Swain spoke only under │
│ │
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│ extraordinary emotion, and then he gained every │
│ ear. I looked and listened. And I went again │
│ and again. │
│ │
│ So, when Mr. Allen brought forth for my │
│ benefit those arguments of the King's party │
│ which were deemed their strength, I would │
│ confront him with Mr. Swain's logic. And when │
│ beaten in argument, he could only laugh out │
│ some sneer. │
│ │
│ The rector was especially bitter toward the │
│ good people of Boston Town, whom he dubbed │
│ Puritan fanatics. To him, Mr. Otis was but a │
│ meddling fool, and Mr. Adams a traitor whose │
│ head only remained on his shoulders by grace of │
│ the extreme clemency of his Majesty--which, │
│ indeed, Mr. Allen was at a loss to understand. │
│ │
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│ ut, come June, I bade farewell to Mr. │
│ Allen, and Mr. Carvel and I went to │
│ Carvel Hall. My grandfather was weak still, so │
│ feeble that he had to be carried to his barge in │
│ a chair, a vehicle he had ever held in scorn. │
│ │
│ Yet he was cheerful, and his spirit remained │
│ the same as of old. Except for that spirit I │
│ believe he would never again have risen from his │
│ bed in Marlboro' Street. │
│ │
│ My uncle and the rector were among those who │
│ walked by his side to the dock, and would have │
│ gone to the Hall with him had he permitted it. │
│ But he was kind enough to say that my arm was │
│ sufficient to lean on. │
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│ We had little company at the Hall that year, │
│ on account of Mr. Carvel. But I was busy │
│ indeed. I sought with all my might to master a │
│ business for which I had but little taste, and │
│ my grandfather complimented me, before the │
│ season was done, upon my management. │
│ │
│ I was wont to rise that summer at four of a │
│ morning, to canter afield beside our factor, Mr. │
│ Rawlinson. And I came to know │
│ the yield of every patch of │
│ tobacco to a hogshead, and the │
│ pound price to a farthing. │
│ │
│ I grew to understand as well │
│ as another the methods of curing │
│ the leaf. And the wheat pest │
│ appearing that year, I had the │
│ │
│ │
│ │
│ good fortune to discover some of the clusters in │
│ the sheaves, and I ground our oyster-shells in │
│ time to save the crop. │
│ │
│ Of none of this was I particularly fond. But │
│ the sight of the old man, trembling and tremulous, │
│ aged by a single stroke, with his childlike trust │
│ in my strength, and above all his faith in a │
│ political creed which he deemed needful for the │
│ soul's salvation--these things held me to my │
│ duty. │
│ _____ │
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