’Twas but three days after the 15th of November, 1712 (Esmond minds him well of the date), that he went by invitation to dine with his General, the foot of whose table he used to take on these festive occasions, as he had done at many a board, hard and plentiful, during the campaign.  This was a great feast, and of the latter sort; the honest old gentleman loved to treat his friends splendidly:  his Grace of Ormonde, before he joined his army as generalissimo, my Lord Viscount Bolingbroke, one of her Majesty’s Secretaries of State, my Lord Orkney, that had served with us abroad, being of the party.  His Grace of Hamilton, Master of the Ordnance, and in whose honor the feast had been given, upon his approaching departure as Ambassador to Paris, had sent an excuse to General Webb at two o’clock, but an hour before the dinner:  nothing but the most immediate business, his Grace said, should have prevented him having the pleasure of drinking a parting glass to the health of General Webb.  His absence disappointed Esmond’s old chief, who suffered much from his wounds besides; and though the company was grand, it was rather gloomy.  St. John came last, and brought a friend with him:  “I’m sure,” says my General, bowing very politely, “my table hath always a place for Dr. Swift.”

Mr. Esmond went up to the Doctor with a bow and a smile:—­“I gave Dr. Swift’s message,” says he, “to the printer:  I hope he brought your pamphlet to your lodgings in time.”  Indeed poor Leach had come to his house very soon after the Doctor left it, being brought away rather tipsy from the tavern by his thrifty wife; and he talked of Cousin Swift in a maudlin way, though of course Mr. Esmond did not allude to this relationship.  The Doctor scowled, blushed, and was much confused, and said scarce a word during the whole of dinner.  A very little stone will sometimes knock down these Goliaths of wit; and this one was often discomfited when met by a man of any spirit; he took his place sulkily, put water in his wine that the others drank plentifully, and scarce said a word.

The talk was about the affairs of the day, or rather about persons than affairs:  my Lady Marlborough’s fury, her daughters in old clothes and mob-caps looking out from their windows and seeing the company pass to the Drawing-room; the gentleman-usher’s horror when the Prince of Savoy was introduced to her Majesty in a tie-wig, no man out of a full-bottomed periwig ever having kissed the Royal hand before; about the Mohawks and the damage they were doing, rushing through the town, killing and murdering.  Some one said the ill-omened face of Mohun had been seen at the theatre the night before, and Macartney and Meredith with him.  Meant to be a feast, the meeting, in spite of drink and talk, was as dismal as a funeral.  Every topic started subsided into gloom.  His Grace of Ormonde went away because the conversation got upon Denain, where we had been defeated in the last campaign.  Esmond’s General was affected