WOULD HEAL AN OLD BREACH

Doctor Hilliard, my grandfather's chaplain, was as holy a man as ever
wore a gown, but I can remember none of his discourses which moved me
as much by half as those simple words Captain Clapsaddle had used. The
worthy doctor, who had baptized both my mother and father, died suddenly
at Carvel Hall the spring following, of a cold contracted while visiting
a poor man who dwelt across the river. He would have lacked but three
years of fourscore come Whitsuntide. He was universally loved and
respected in that district where he had lived so long and ably, by rich
and poor alike, and those of many creeds saw him to his last
resting-place. Mr. Carroll, of Carrollton, who was an ardent Catholic,
stood bareheaded beside the grave.

Doctor Hilliard was indeed a beacon in a time when his profession among
us was all but darkness, and when many of the scandals of the community
might be laid at the door of those whose duty it was to prevent them.
The fault lay without doubt in his Lordship's charter, which gave to the
parishioners no voice in the choosing of their pastors. This matter was
left to Lord Baltimore's whim. Hence it was that he sent among us so
many fox-hunting and gaming parsons who read the service ill and preached
drowsy and illiterate sermons. Gaming and fox-hunting, did I say? These
are but charitable words to cover the real characters of those impostors
in holy orders, whose doings would often bring the blush of shame to your
cheeks. Nay, I have seen a clergyman drunk in the pulpit, and even in
those freer days their laxity and immorality were such that many flocked
to hear the parsons of the Methodists and Lutherans, whose simple and
eloquent words and simpler lives were worthy of their cloth. Small
wonder was it, when every strolling adventurer and soldier out of
employment took orders and found favour in his Lordship's eyes, and were
given the fattest livings in place of worthier men, that the Established
Church fell somewhat into disrepute. Far be it from me to say that there
were not good men and true in that Church, but the wag who writ this
verse, which became a common saying in Maryland, was not far wrong for
the great body of them:--

"Who is a monster of the first renown?
A lettered sot, a drunkard in a gown."

My grandfather did not replace Dr. Hilliard at the Hall, afterwards
saying the prayers himself. The doctor had been my tutor, and in spite
of my waywardn