f the Governor's gate and
down Northwest Street to the Circle, where a strange sight met my eyes.
A crowd like that I had seen on the dock had collected there, Mr. Swain
and Mr. Hammond and other barristers holding them in check. Mounted on
a one-horse cart was a stuffed figure of the detested Mr. Hood. Mr.
Hammond made a speech, but for the laughter and cheering I could not
catch a word of it. I pushed through the people, as a boy will, diving
between legs to get a better view, when I felt a hand upon my shoulder,
bringing me up suddenly. And I recognized Mr. Matthias Tilghman, and
with him was Mr. Samuel Chase.

"Does your grandfather know you are here, lad?" said Mr. Tilghman.

I paused a moment for breath before I answered: "He attended the rally
at the dock himself, sir, and I believe enjoyed it."

Both gentlemen smiled, and Mr. Chase remarked that if all the other
party were like Mr. Carvel, troubles would soon cease. "I mean not
Grafton," says he, with a wink at Mr. Tilghman.

"I'll warrant, Richard, your uncle would be but ill pleased to see you
in such company."

"Nay, sir," I replied, for I never feared to speak up, "there are you
wrong. I think it would please my uncle mightily."

"The lad hath indifferent penetration," said Mr, Tilghman, laughing, and
adding more soberly: "If you never do worse than this, Richard, Maryland
may some day be proud of you."

Mr. Hammond having finished his speech, a paper was placed in the hand
of the effigy, and the crowd bore it shouting and singing to the hill,
where Mr. John Shaw, the city carpenter, had made a gibbet. There nine
and thirty lashes were bestowed on the unfortunate image, the people
crying out that this was the Mosaic Law. And I cried as loud as any,
though I knew not the meaning of the words. They hung Mr. Hood to the
gibbet and set fire to a tar barrel under him, and so left him.

The town wore a holiday look that day, and I was loth to go back to
the Governor's house. Good patriots' shops were closed, their owners
parading as on Sunday in their best, pausing in knots at every corner
to discuss the affair with which the town simmered. I encountered old
Farris, the clockmaker, in his brown coat besprinkled behind with powder
from his queue. "How now, Master Richard?" says he, merrily. "This is no
place for young gentlemen of your persuasion."

Next I came upon young Dr. Courtenay, the wit of the Tuesday Club, of
whom I shall have more to say hereaft