previous to his mischance. As Polonius said
of Hamlet--another unstrung mortal--Tilton's replies had "a happiness
that often madness hits on, which reason and sanity could not so
prosperously be delivered of." One morning, he appeared at the
flour-mill with a sack of corn to be ground for the almshouse, and was
asked what he knew. "Some things I know," replied poor Tilton, "and some
things I don't know. I know the miller's hogs grow fat, but I don't know
whose corn they fat on." To borrow another word from Polonius, though
this be madness, yet there was method in it. Tilton finally brought up
in the almshouse, where he was allowed the liberty of roaming at will
through the town. He loved the water-side as if he had had all his
senses. Often he was seen to stand for hours with a sunny, torpid smile
on his lips, gazing out upon the river where its azure ruffles itself
into silver against the islands. He always wore stuck in his hat a
few hen's feathers, perhaps with some vague idea of still associating
himself with the birds of the air, if hens can come into that category.

George Jaffrey, third of the name, was a character of another
complexion, a gentleman born, a graduate of Harvard in 1730, and one of
His Majesty's Council in 1766--a man with the blood of the lion and
the unicorn in every vein. He remained to the bitter end, and beyond,
a devout royalist, prizing his shoe-buckles, not because they were of
chased silver, but because they bore the tower mark and crown stamp. He
stoutly objected to oral prayer, on the ground that it gave rogues and
hypocrites an opportunity to impose on honest folk. He was punctilious
in his attendance at church, and unfailing in his responses, though not
of a particularly devotional temperament. On one occasion, at least, his
sincerity is not to be questioned. He had been deeply irritated by some
encroachments on the boundaries of certain estates, and had gone to
church that forenoon with his mind full of the matter. When the minister
in the course of reading the service came to the apostrophe, "Cursed be
he who removeth his neighbor's landmark," Mr. Jeffrey's feelings were
too many for him, and he cried out "Amen!" in a tone of voice that
brought smiles to the adjoining pews.

Mr. Jaffrey's last will and testament was a whimsical document, in spite
of the Hon. Jeremiah Mason, who drew up the paper. It had originally
been Mr. Jaffrey's plan to leave his possessions to his beloved frien