This was a magnificent tankard, the pride of Crompton, which, at the conclusion of dinner, was always filled with port-wine, and passed round the table.  It was lined with silver gilt, but made of ivory, and had a cover of the same, both finely carved.  On the bowl was portrayed a Forest Scene, with Satyrs pursuing Nymphs; on the lid was the Battle of the Centaurs; while the stem was formed by a sculptured figure of Hercules.  If the artist, Magnus Berg, who had fashioned it long ago in his own Rhine Land, had had foresight of the sort of company into whose hands his work was in these days to pass he could not have hit upon more apt devices.  His Satyrs and his Centaurs had here their representatives in the flesh; while the thews and sinews of the son of Alcmene had their counterpart in those of the man who now stood up at the head of that splendid table, and drank such a draught as though the port were porter.  It was a feat to hold it with one hand, and therefore Carew did so; but to empty it at a draught was, even for him, an impossibility, for it held three bottles of wine.  Though the Squire could be acquitted of entertaining reverence for any thing human or divine, he had a sort of superstitious regard for his beaker, and believed that so long as he had it in his possession—­like the “Luck of Eden Hall”—­no great harm could happen to him.  He attached all the importance of a religious ceremony—­and, indeed, it was the only one he practiced—­to the using of this goblet, and resented any levity during the process as though it were sacrilege.  But to stand up after dinner, and much less to support this elaborate drinking-vessel, was not always an easy matter with the Squire’s guests, and so it happened on the present occasion.  The usage was, that one held the cover while his neighbor drank from the cup, after a ceremonious bow to him; and it fell to the lot of Mr. Frederick Chandos to perform this latter duty immediately after his host, and while there was still much wine in the goblet.  Uncertain as to his footing, and trembling with irritation, as well as with the weight of his burden, he hesitated to drink.  Perhaps, in his already wine-muddled brain, he had some vague idea of passing the vessel on, and thereby showing his displeasure; but, at all events, the hesitation was unfortunate for him, for, with a fierce ejaculation of impatience, Carew crammed the great cover on the young man’s head, which, like the helmet of Otranto, came down over nose and chin.  Maddened with the insult, Chandos dashed the contents of the goblet into what he thought was the Squire’s face, but which was indeed the white cravat and waistcoat of his opposite neighbor; and then began a scene that Smollett alone could have described or Hogarth painted.  It was as though a concerted signal had been given for a free fight among all the Squire’s guests.  The one art that was practiced among them was that of boxing, and almost every man present had a neat way of hitting