Winston Churchill.

Richard Carvel. With illustrations by Carlton T. Chapman and Malcolm Fraser online

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SAN 01 EGO j



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All rights reserved

Copyright, 1899,
By the M ACM ill an COMPANY.

Set up and electrotyped May, 1899. Reprinted June four times,
July three times, August five times, September four times, October
three times, November, December three times, 1899; January, 1900.
February, March, July, September, iqoo.

STottonoli ^rtss

J. S. Cushing & Co. — Berwick & Smith
Norwood Mass. U.S.A.


<©f .Saint ILouts



Mt sons and daughters have tried to persuade me to remodel
these memoirs of my grandfather into a latter-day romance.
But I have thought it wiser to leave them as he wrote them.
Albeit they contain some details not of interest to the general
public, to my notion it is such imperfections as these which
lend to them the reality they bear. Certain it is, when read-
ing them, I live his life over again.

Needless to say, Mr. Kichard Carvel never intended them
for publication. His first apology would be for his Scotch,
and his only defence is that he was not a Scotchman.

The lively capital which once reflected the wit and fashion
of Europe has fallen into decay. The silent streets no more
echo with the rumble of coaches and gay chariots, and grass^
grows where busy merchants trod. Stately ball-rooms, where
beauty once reigned, are cold and empty and mildewed, and
halls, where laughter rang, are silent. Time was when every
wide-throated chimney poured forth its cloud of smoke, when
every andiron held a generous log, — andirons which are now
gone to decorate Mr. Centennial's home in New York or lie
with a tag in the window of some curio shop. The mantel,
carved in delicate wreaths, is boarded up, and an unsightly
stove mocks the gilded ceiling. Children romp in that room
with the silver door-knobs, where my master and his lady were


wont to sit at cards in silk and brocade, while liveried blacks
entered on tiptoe. No marble Cupids or tall Dianas fill tbe
niches in the staircase, and the mahogany board, round which
has been gathered many a famous toast and wit, is gone from
the dining room.

But Mr. Carvel's town house in Annapolis stands to-day,
with its neighbours, a mournful relic of a glory that is past.


Calvbkt House, Pennsylvania,
December 21, 1876.





Lionel Carvel, of Carvel Hall 1


Some Memories of Childhood



Caught by the Tide



Grafton would heal an Old Breach .



" If Ladies be but Young and Fair "



I first suffer for the Cause



Grafton has his Chance .

. 61


Over the Wall

. 70


Under False Colours



The Red in the Carvel Blood .

. 91


A Festival and a Parting ....



News from a Far Country



Mr. Allen shows his Hand



The Volte Coupe



Of which the Rector has the Worst .

. 144


In which Some Things are made Clear



South River



The Black Moll



A Man of Destiny



A Sad Home-coming ....



The Gardener's Cottage .



On the Road





XXIII. London Town 215

XXIV, Castle Yard 227

XXV. The Rescue 234

XXVI. The Part Horatio played 244

XXVII. In which I am sore tempted 253

XXVIII. Arlington Street 264

XXIX. I meet a very Great Young Man 271

XXX. A Conspiracy 279

XXXI. "Upstairs into the World" 290

XXXII. Lady Tankerville's Drum-major 303

XXXIII. Drury Lane 313

XXXIV. His Grace makes Advances 323

XXXV. In which my Lord Baltimore appears .... 329

XXXVI. A Glimpse of Mr. Garrick 337

XXXVII. The Serpentine 344

XXXVIII. In which I am roundly brought to task . . .354

XXXIX. Holland House 362

XL. Vauxhall 372

XLI. The Wilderness 380

XLII. My Friends are proven 389

XLIII. Annapolis once more 395

XLIV. Noblesse Oblige 404

XLV. The House of Memories .413

XLVI. Gordon's Pride 422

XLVII. Visitors 427

XLVIIL Multum in Parvo 438

XLIX. Liberty loses a Friend 448

L. Farewell to Gordon's 457

LL How an Idle Prophecy came to pass .... 463




LII. How the Gardener's Son fought the Serapis

LIII. In which I make Some Discoveries

LIV. More Discoveries

LV. " The Love of a Maid for a Man "

LVI. How Good came out of Evil

LVII. I come to my Own again .





If I might kill this monster, I would die willingly Frontispiece 381

One fifteenth of June 11

" Why do you not come over, as you used to ? " . . . . 83

•* Are ye kelpie or pirate ? " 174

In walked John Paul himself 192

** You . . . would sell your daughter and your honour for a

title 1" 38?

We might have tossed a biscuit aboard the Serapis . , . 483

With the first strawberries of the year < . » o . 536





Lionel Carvel, Esq., of Carvel Hall, in the county of Queen
Anne, was no inconsiderable man in his Lordship's province
of Maryland, and indeed he was not unknown in the colonial
capitals from Williamsburg to Boston. When his ships arrived
out, in May or June, they made a goodly showing at the
wharves, and his captains were ever shrewd men of judgment
who sniffed a Frenchman on the horizon, so that none of the
Carvel tobacco ever went, in that way, to gladden a Gallic
heart. Mr. Carvel's acres were both rich and broad, and his
house wide for the stranger who might seek its shelter, as
with God's help so it ever shall be. It has yet to be said of
the Carvels that their guests are hurried away, or that one, by
reason of his worldly goods or position, shall be more welcome
than another.

I take no shame in the pride with which I write of my
grandfather, albeit he took the part of his Majesty and Par-
liament against the Colonies. He was no palavering turn-
coat, like my Uncle Grafton, to cry " God save the King ! "
again when an English fleet sailed up the bay. Mr. Carvel's
hand was large and his heart was large, and he was respected
and even loved by the patriots as a man above paltry sub-
terfuge. He was born at Carvel Hall in the year of our Lord
1696, when the house was, I am told, but a small dwelling. It
was his father, George Carvel, my great-grand sire, reared the
present house in the year 1720, of brick brought from England


as ballast for the empty ships ; he added on, in the years fol-
lowing, the wide wings containing the ball-room, and the
banquet-hall, and the large library at the eastern end, and the
offices. But it was my grandfather who built the great stables
and the kennels where he kept his beagles and his fleeter
hounds. He dearly loved the saddle and the chase, and taught
me to love them too. Many the sharp winter day I have fol-
lowed the fox with him over two counties, and lain that night,
and a week after, forsooth, at the plantation of some kind
friend who was only too glad to receive us. Often, too, have
we stood together from early morning until dark night, waist
deep, on the duck points, I with a fowling-piece I was all but
too young to carry, and brought back a hundred red-heads or
canvas-backs in our bags. He went with unfailing regularity
to the races at Annapolis or Chestertown or Marlborough,
often to see his own horses run, where the coaches of the
gentry were fifty and sixty around the course ; where a negro,
or a hogshead of tobacco, or a pipe of Madeira was often
staked at a single throw. Those times, my children, are not
ours, and I thought it not strange that Mr. Carvel should
delight in a good main between two cocks, or a bull-baiting, or
a breaking of heads at the Chestertown fair, where he went
to show his cattle and fling a guinea into the ring for the

But it must not be thought that Lionel Carvel, your ancestor,
was wholly unlettered because he was a sportsman, though it
must be confessed that books occupied him only when the
weather compelled, or when on his back with the gout. At
times he would fain have me read to him as he lay in his great
four-post bed with the flowered counterpane, from the Spectator,
stopping me now and anon at some awakened memory of his
youth. He never forgave Mr. Addison for killing stout, old
Sir Roger de Coverley, and would never listen to the butler's
account of his death. Mr. Carvel, too, had walked in Gray's
Inn Gardens and met adventure at Fox Hall, and seen the
great Marlborough himself. He had a fondness for Mr. Con-
greve's Comedies, some of which he had seen acted ; and was
partial to Mr. Gay's THvia, which brought him many a recol-


lection. He would also listen to Pope. But of the more mod-
ern poetry I think Mr. Gray's Eleyy pleased him best. He
would laugh over Swift's gall and wormwood, and would never
be brought by my mother to acknowledge the defects in the
Dean's character. Why ? He had once met the Dean in a
London drawing-room, when my grandfather was a young
spark at Christ Church, Oxford., He never tired of relating
that interview. The hostess was a very great lady indeed, and
actually stood waiting for a word with his Reverence, whose
whim it was rather to talk to the young provincial. He was
a forbidding figure, in his black gown and periwig, so my
grandfather said, with a piercing blue eye and shaggy brow.
He made the mighty to come to him, while young Carvel stood
between laughter and fear of the great lady's displeasure.

" I knew of your father," said the Dean, " before he went to
the colonies. He had done better at home, sir. He was a man
of parts."

" He has done indifferently well in Maryland, sir," said Mr.
Carvel, making his bow.

" He hath gained wealth, forsooth," says the Dean, wrath-
fully, "and might have had both wealth and fame had his
love for King James not turned his head. I have heard
much of the colonies, and have read that doggerel ' Sot
Weed Factor ' which tells of the gluttonous life of ease you
lead in your own province. You can have no men of mark
from such conditions, Mr, Carvel. Tell me," he adds con-
temptuously, "is genius honoured among you?"

" Eaith, it is honoured, your Reverence," said my grand-
father, "but never encouraged."

This answer so pleased the Dean that he bade Mr. Carvel
dine with him next day at Button's Coffee House, where they
drank mulled wine and old sack, for which young Mr, Carvel
paid. On which occasion his Reverence endeavoured to per-
suade the young man to remain in England, and even went so
far as to promise his influence to obtain him preferment. But
Mr. Carvel chose rather (wisely or not, who can judge?) to
come back to Carvel Hall and to the lands of which he was to
be master, and to play the country squire and provincial mag-


nate rathar tlian follow the varying fortunes of a political
party at home. And he was a man much looked up to in the
province before the Revolution, and sat at the council board of
his Excellency the Governor, as his father had done before
him, and represented the crown in more matters than one
when the French and savages were upon our frontiers.

Although a lover of good cheer, Mr. Carvel was never intem-
perate. To the end of his days he enjoyed his bottle after
dinner, nay, could scarce get along without it ; and mixed a
punch or a posset as well as any in our colony. He chose a
good London-brewed ale or porter, and his ships brought
Madeira from that island by the pipe, and sack from Spain
and Portugal, and red wine from France when there was
peace. And puncheons of rum from Ja,maica and the Indies
for his people, holding that no gentleman ever drank rum in
the raw, though fairly supportable as punch.

Mr. Carvel's house stands in Marlborough Street, a dreary
mansion enough. Praised be Heaven that those who inherit it
are not obliged to live there on the memory of what was in
days gone by. The heavy green shutters are closed ; the high
steps, though stoutly built, are shaky after these years of dis-
use ; the host of faithful servants who kept its state are nearly
all laid side by side at Carvel Hall. Harvey and Chess and
Scipio are no more. The kitchen, whither a boyish hunger oft
directed my eyes at twilight, shines not with the welcoming
gleam of yore. Chess no longer prepares the dainties which
astonished Mr. Carvel's guests, and which he alone could cook.
The coach still stands in the stables where Harvey left it, a
lumbering relic of those lumbering times when methinks there
was more of goodwill 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 but-
ler. He was forbid to light the candles after dinner. As dark
grew on, Mr. Carvel liked the blazing logs for light, and pres-
ently 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 Cap-
tain 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'a
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.



A TRAVELLER who lias all but gained the last height of tJie
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.
When my poor mother had gone up the stairs on my grand-
father's arm the strong soldier took me on his knee, and draw-
ing his pistol from his holster bade me snap the lock, which I
was barely able to do. And he told me wonderful tales of the
woods beyond the mountains, and of the painted d en who
cracked them; much wilder and fiercer they were than those
stray Nanticokes I had seen from time to time near Carvel
Hall. And when at last he would go I clung to him, so he
swung me to the back of his great horse Ronald, and I seized
the bridle in my small hands. The noble beast, Hke his
master, loved a child well, and he cantered off lightly at the
3aptain's whistle, who cried " bravo " and ran by my side lest
[ should fall. Lifting me off at length he kissed me and
bade me not to annoy my mother, the tears in his eyes again.
And leaping on Ronald was away for the ferry with never so
much as a look behind, leaving me standing in the road.

And from that time I saw more of him and loved him better
than any man save my grandfather. He gave me a pony on



my next birthday, and a little hogskin saddle made especially
by Master Wythe, the Loudon saddler in the town, with a
silver-mounted bridle. Indeed, rarely did the captain return
from one of his long journeys without something for me and a
handsome present for my mother. Mr. Carvel would have had
him make his home with us when we were in town, but this he
would not do. He lodged in Church Street, over against the
Coffee House, dining at that hostelry when not bidden out, or
when not with us. He was much sought after. I believe
there was scarce a man of note in any of the colonies not num-
bered among his friends. 'Twas said he loved my mother,
and could never come to care for any other woman, and he
promised my father in the forests to look after her welfare and
mine. This promise, you shall see, he faithfully kept.

Though you have often heard from my lips the story of my
mother, I must for the sake of those who are to come after you,
set it down here as briefly as I may. My grandfather's bark
Charming Sally, Captain Stanwix, having set out from Bristol
on the 15th of April, 1736, with a fair wind astern an(J. a full
cargo of English goods below, near the Madeiras fell in with
foul weather, which increased as she entered the trades.
Captain Stanwix being a prudent man, shortened sail, knowing
the harbour of Funchal to be but a shallow bight in the rock,
and worse than the open sea in a southeaster. The third d^j.^ ^^
hove the Salhj to ; being a stout craft and not overladen she
weathered the gale with the loss of a jib, and was about mak-
ing topsails again when a full-rigged ship was descried in the
offing giving signals of distress. Night was coming on very
fast, and the sea was yet running too high for a boat to live,
but the gallant captain furled his topsails once more to await
the morning. It could be seen from her signals that the ship
was living throughout the night, but at dawn she foundered
before the Salb/s boats could be put in the water; one of
them was ground to pieces on the falls. Out of the ship's
company and passengers they picked up but five souls, four
sailors and a little girl of two years or thereabouts. The men
knew nothing more of her than that she had come aboard at
Brest with her mother, a quiet, delicate lady who spoke little


with the other passengers. The ship was La Favourite du
Boy, bound for the French Indies.

Captain Stanwix's wife, who was a good, motherly person,
took charge of the little orphan, and arriving at Carvel Hall
delivered her to my grandfather, who brought her up as his
own daughter. You may be sure the emblem of Catholicism
found upon her was destroyed, and she was baptized straight-
way by Doctor Hilliard, my grandfather's chaplain, into the
Established Church. Her clothes were of the finest quality,
and her little handkerchief had worked into the corner of it a
ooronet, with the initials " E de T " beside it. Around her
neck was that locket with the gold chain which I have so often
shown you, on one side of which is the miniature of the young
officer in his most Christian Majesty's uniform, and on the
other a yellow-faded slip of paper with these words : " Elle est
la mienne, quoiqu'elle ne porte pas mon nom." " She is mine,
although she does not bear my name."

My grandfather wrote to the owners of La Favourite du Roy,
and likewise directed his English agent to spare nothing in
the search for some clew to the child's identity. All that he
found was that the mother had been entered on the passenger-
list as Madame la Farge, of Paris, and was bound for Marti-
nico. Of the father there was no trace whatever. The name
" la Farge " the agent, Mr. Dix, knew almost to a certainty was
assumed, and the coronet on the handkerchief implied that
the child was of noble parentage. The meaning conveyed by
the paper in the locket, which was plainly a clipping from a
letter, was such that Mr. Carvel never showed it to my mother,
and would have destroyed it had he not felt that some day it
might aid in solving the mystery. So he kept it in his strong-
box, where he thought it safe from prying eyes. But my Uncle
Grafton, ever a deceitful lad, at length discovered the key and
read the paper, and afterwards used the knowledge he thus
obtained as a reproach and a taunt against my mother. I can-
not even now write his name without repulsion.

This new member of the household was renamed Elizabeth
Carvel, though they called her Bess, and of a course she was
greatly petted and spoiled, and ruled all those about her. As


she grew from childhood to womanhood her beauty became
talked about, and afterwards, when Mistress Carvel went to
the Assembly, a dozen young sparks would crowd about the
door of her coach, and older and more serious men lost their
heads on her account.

Her devotion to Mr. Carvel was such, however, that she
seemed to care but little for the attention she received, and
she continued to grace his board and entertain his company.
He fairly worshipped her. It was his delight to surprise her
with presents from England, with rich silks and brocades for
gowns, for he loved to see her bravely dressed. The spinet he
gave her, inlaid with ivory, we have still. And he caused a
chariot to be made for her in London, and she had her own
horses and her groom in the Carvel livery.

People said it was but natural that she should fall in love
with Captain Jack, my father. He was the soldier of the
family, tall and straight and dashing. He differed from his
S^ounger brother Grafton as day from night. Captain Jack
tvas open and generous, though a little given to rash enterprise
and madcap adventure. He loved my mother from a child.
His friend Captain Clapsaddle loved her too, and likewise
Grafton, but it soon became evident that she would marry
Captain Jack or nobody. He was my grandfather's favourite,
and though Mr. Carvel had wished him more serious, his joy
when Bess blushingly told him the news was a pleasure to see.
And Grafton turned to revenge ; he went to Mr. Carvel with
the paper he had taken from the strong-box and claimed that
my mother was of spurious birth and not fit to marry a Carvel.
He afterwards spread the story secretly among the friends of
the family. By good fortune little harm arose therefrom, since
all who knew my mother loved her, and were willing to give
her credit for the doubt; many, indeed, thought the story
sprang from Grafton's jealousy and hatred. Then it was that
Mr. Carvel gave to Grafton the estate in Kent County and
bade him shift for himself, saying that he washed his hands
of a son who had acted such a part.

But Captain Clapsaddle came to the wedding in the long
drawing-room at the Hall and stood by Captain Jack when he


was married, and kissed the bride heartily. And my mothei
cried about this afterwards, and said that it grieved her sorely
that she should have given pain to such a noble man.

After the blow which left her a widow, she continued to
keep Mr. Carvel's home. I recall her well, chiefly as a sad and
beautiful woman, stately save when she kissed me with passion
and said that I bore my father's look. She drooped like the
flower she was, and one spring day my grandfather led me to
receive her blessing and to be folded for the last time in those
dear arms. With a smile on her lips she rose to heaven to
meet my father. And she lies buried with the rest of the
Carvels at the Hall, next to the brave captain, her husband.

And so I grew up with my grandfather, spending the winters
in town and the long summers on the Eastern Shore. I loved
the country best, and the old house with its hundred feet of
front standing on the gentle slope rising from the river's mouth,
the green vines Mr. Carvel had fetched from England all but
hiding the brick, and climbing to the angled roof; and the

Online LibraryWinston ChurchillRichard Carvel. With illustrations by Carlton T. Chapman and Malcolm Fraser → online text (page 1 of 44)