nly been a man of honour, he would have become a
great man. But his tricky, unscrupulous nature was his ruin.

Edmund Munro served again at Crown Point in 1762-63, as a lieutenant,
and as adjutant of the four provincial regiments stationed there.

I met him often in the Revolution. He was captain of the Lexington
company. Poor fellow, he was killed by a cannon ball at Monmouth, at the
head of his company. He died poor, and his widow had a hard time till
the little ones grew up.

Of our old playmate, John Hancock, you have all heard, how he inherited
the wealth of his Uncle Thomas, and in his turn was the richest man in
Boston, and lived in the stone house on Beacon Hill.

You remember how he risked his great fortune and his head, and sided
with his countrymen. His bold signature heads the signers of the
Declaration of Independence. Riches and honours came to him. Year after
year he was chosen governor of Massachusetts.

[Sidenote: GOVERNOR HANCOCK]

I did not meet him from the time I went to the French War till some ten
years after the Revolution.

I called on him in Boston, and he was glad to see me, and had me up to
his house to dinner and to spend the night.

Everything was magnificent. John was kind, but condescending--something
like a great mogul receiving an inferior.

I had no favour to ask of him. I saw no reason why I should look up to
and revere him. I had played my own part in life well and boldly and
stood firm on my feet. When John found I was not in awe of his rank and
magnificence, he gave up his grand airs and was again the bright, lively
fellow I knew as a boy.

Hector and Donald Munro remained in this country. After the French War
was over, they visited their kinsmen in Lexington, and then went to
Rehoboth, where there is another branch of the family, and settled in
that town.

My old wrestling-master, Jonas Parker, was killed on the common at
Lexington, on the 19th of April, 1775. He had said in his grim way,
"Some may run from the British, but I won't budge a foot."

He was in the front rank of the minutemen. He laid his hat on the ground
before him, and in it placed his powder-horn and bullets.

When the British fired, he was wounded, and fell to his knees. He
returned their fire, and was reloading, when the regulars ran forward
and killed him with their bayonets.

Amos and Davy were in the Revolution, too. They never got over their
love for fox-hunting and pigeon-shooting.

As I