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.

I shut my eyes, and there comes to me unbidden that dining-room in
Marlborough Street of a gray winter's afternoon, when I was but a lad.
I see my dear grandfather in his wig and silver-laced waistcoat and
his blue velvet coat, seated at the head of the table, and the precise
Scipio has put down the dumb-waiter filled with shining cut-glass at his
left hand, and his wine chest at his right, and with solemn pomp driven
his black assistants from the room. Scipio was Mr. Carvel's butler.
He was forbid to light the candles after dinner. As dark grew on, Mr.
Carvel liked the blazing logs for light, and presently sets the decanter
on the corner of the table and draws nearer the fire, his guests
following. I recall well how jolly Governor Sharpe, who was a frequent
visitor with us, was wont to display a comely calf in silk stocking; and
how Captain Daniel Clapsaddle would spread his feet with his toes out,
and settle his long pipe between his teeth. And there were besides
a host of others who sat at that fire whose names have passed into
Maryland's history,--Whig and Tory alike. And I remember a tall slip
of a lad who sat listening by the deep-recessed windows on the street,
which somehow are always covered in these pictures with a fine rain.
Then a coach passes,--a mahogany coach emblazoned with the Manners's
coat of arms, and Mistress Dorothy and her mother within. And my young
lady gives me one of those demure bows which ever set my heart agoing
like a smith's hammer of a Monday.

CHAPTER II. SOME MEMORIES OF CHILDHOOD

A traveller who has all but gained the last height of the great
mist-covered mountain looks back over the painful crags he has mastered
to where a light is shining on the first easy slope. That light is ever
visible, for it is Youth.

After nigh fourscore and ten years of life that Youth is nearer to me
now than many things which befell me later. I recall as yesterday the
day Captain Clapsaddle rode to the Hall, his horse covered with sweat,
and the reluctant tidings of Captain Jack Carvel's death on his lips.
And strangely enough that day sticks in my memory as of delight
rather than sadness.