“I knew of your father,” said the Dean, “before he went to the colonies.  He had done better at home, sir.  He was a man of parts.”

“He has done indifferently well in Maryland, sir,” said Mr. Carvel, making his bow.

“He hath gained wealth, forsooth,” says the Dean, wrathfully, “and might have had both wealth and fame had his love for King James not turned his head.  I have heard much of the colonies, and have read that doggerel ‘Sot Weed Factor’ which tells of the gluttonous life of ease you lead in your own province.  You can have no men of mark from such conditions, Mr. Carvel.  Tell me,” he adds contemptuously, “is genius honoured among you?”

“Faith, it is honoured, your Reverence,” said my grandfather, “but never encouraged.”

This answer so pleased the Dean that he bade Mr. Carvel dine with him next day at Button’s Coffee House, where they drank mulled wine and old sack, for which young Mr. Carvel paid.  On which occasion his Reverence endeavoured to persuade the young man to remain in England, and even went so far as to promise his influence to obtain him preferment.  But Mr. Carvel chose rather (wisely or not, who can judge?) to come back to Carvel Hall and to the lands of which he was to be master, and to play the country squire and provincial magnate rather than follow the varying fortunes of a political party at home.  And he was a man much looked up to in the province before the Revolution, and sat at the council board of his Excellency the Governor, as his father had done before him, and represented the crown in more matters than one when the French and savages were upon our frontiers.

Although a lover of good cheer, Mr. Carvel was never intemperate.  To the end of his days he enjoyed his bottle after dinner, nay, could scarce get along without it; and mixed a punch or a posset as well as any in our colony.  He chose a good London-brewed ale or porter, and his ships brought Madeira from that island by the pipe, and sack from Spain and Portugal, and red wine from France when there was peace.  And puncheons of rum from Jamaica and the Indies for his people, holding that no gentleman ever drank rum in the raw, though fairly supportable as punch.

Mr. Carvel’s house stands in Marlborough Street, a dreary mansion enough.  Praised be Heaven that those who inherit it are not obliged to live there on the memory of what was in days gone by.  The heavy green shutters are closed; the high steps, though stoutly built, are shaky after these years of disuse; the host of faithful servants who kept its state are nearly all laid side by side at Carvel Hall.  Harvey and Chess and Scipio are no more.  The kitchen, whither a boyish hunger oft directed my eyes at twilight, shines not with the welcoming gleam of yore.  Chess no longer prepares the dainties which astonished Mr. Carvel’s guests, and which he alone could cook.  The coach still stands in the stables where Harvey left it, a lumbering relic of those lumbering times when methinks there was more of goodwill and less of haste in the world.  The great brass knocker, once resplendent from Scipio’s careful hand, no longer fantastically reflects the guest as he beats his tattoo, and Mr. Peale’s portrait of my grandfather is gone from the dining-room wall, adorning, as you know, our own drawing-room at Calvert House.