Richard Carvel — Complete

by Winston Churchill

  CHAPTER I. LIONEL CARVEL, OF CARVEL HALL

  Lionel Carvel, Esq., of Carvel Hall, in the county of Queen Anne, was noinconsiderable man in his Lordship's province of Maryland, and indeedhe was not unknown in the colonial capitals from Williamsburg to Boston.When his ships arrived out, in May or June, they made a goodly showingat the wharves, and his captains were ever shrewd men of judgment whosniffed a Frenchman on the horizon, so that none of the Carvel tobaccoever went, in that way, to gladden a Gallic heart. Mr. Carvel's acreswere both rich and broad, and his house wide for the stranger who mightseek its shelter, as with God's help so it ever shall be. It has yet tobe 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 thananother.

  I take no shame in the pride with which I write of my grandfather,albeit he took the part of his Majesty and Parliament against theColonies. He was no palavering turncoat, 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 respectedand even loved by the patriots as a man above paltry subterfuge. He wasborn 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, mygreat-grandsire, reared the present house in the year 1720, of brickbrought from England as ballast for the empty ships; he added on, inthe years following, the wide wings containing the ball-room, and thebanquet-hall, and the large library at the eastern end, and the offices.But it was my grandfather who built the great stables and the kennelswhere he kept his beagles and his fleeter hounds. He dearly loved thesaddle and the chase, and taught me to love them too. Many the sharpwinter day I have followed the fox with him over two counties, and lainthat night, and a week after, forsooth, at the plantation of some kindfriend who was only too glad to receive us. Often, too, have we stoodtogether from early morning until dark night, waist deep, on the duckpoints, I with a fowling-piece I was all but too young to carry, andbrought back a hundred red-heads or canvas-backs in our bags. He wentwith unfailing regularity to the races at Annapolis or Chestertown orMarlborough, often to see his own horses run, where the coaches ofthe gentry were fifty and sixty around the course; where a negro, or ahogshead of tobacco, or a pipe of Madeira was often staked at a singlethrow. Those times, my children, are not ours, and I thought it notstrange 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, wherehe went to show his cattle and fling a guinea into the ring for thewinner.

  But it must not be thought that Lionel Carvel, your ancestor, was whollyunlettered because he was a sportsman, though it must be confessed thatbooks occupied him only when the weather compelled, or when on his backwith the gout. At times he would fain have me read to him as he layin his great four-post bed with the flowered counterpane, from theSpectator, stopping me now and anon at some awakened memory of hisyouth. He never forgave Mr. Addison for killing stout, old Sir Roger deCoverley, 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 atFox Hall, and seen the great Marlborough himself. He had a fondnessfor Mr. Congreve's Comedies, many of which he had seen acted; and waspartial to Mr. Gay's Trivia, which brought him many a recollection. Hewould also listen to Pope. But of the more modern poetry I think Mr.Gray's Elegy pleased him best. He would laugh over Swift's gall andwormwood, and would never be brought by my mother to acknowledge thedefects in the Dean's character. Why? He had once met the Dean in aLondon drawing-room, when my grandfather was a young spark at ChristChurch, Oxford. He never tired of relating that interview. The hostesswas a very great lady indeed, and actually stood waiting for a word withhis Reverence, whose whim it was rather to talk to the young provincial.He was a forbidding figure, in his black gown and periwig, so mygrandfather said, with a piercing blue eye and shaggy brow. He made themighty to come to him, while young Carvel stood between laughter andfear 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, wrathfully, "and mighthave had both wealth and fame had his love for King James not turnedhis 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 inyour own province. You can have no men of mark from such conditions,Mr. Carvel. Tell me," he adds contemptuously, "is genius honoured amongyou?"

  "Faith, it is honoured, your Reverence," said my grandfather, "but neverencouraged."

  This answer so pleased the Dean that he bade Mr. Carvel dine with himnext day at Button's Coffee House, where they drank mulled wine and oldsack, for which young Mr. Carvel paid. On which occasion his Reverenceendeavoured to persuade the young man to remain in England, and evenwent so far as to promise his influence to obtain him preferment. ButMr. Carvel chose rather (wisely or not, who can judge?) to come back toCarvel Hall and to the lands of which he was to be master, and to playthe country squire and provincial magnate rather than follow the varyingfortunes of a political party at home. And he was a man much looked upto in the province before the Revolution, and sat at the council boardof his Excellency the Governor, as his father had done before him,and represented the crown in more matters than one when the French andsavages were upon our frontiers.

  Although a lover of good cheer, Mr. Carvel was never intemperate. To theend of his days he enjoyed his bottle after dinner, nay, could scarceget along without it; and mixed a punch or a posset as well as any inour colony. He chose a good London-brewed ale or porter, and his shipsbrought Madeira from that island by the pipe, and sack from Spain andPortugal, and red wine from France when there was peace. And puncheonsof rum from Jamaica and the Indies for his people, holding that nogentleman ever drank rum in the raw, though fairly supportable as punch.

  Mr. Carvel's house stands in Marlborough Street, a dreary mansionenough. Praised be Heaven that those who inherit it are not obliged tolive there on the memory of what was in days gone by. The heavy greenshutters are closed; the high steps, though stoutly built, are shakyafter these years of disuse; the host of faithful servants who kept itsstate are nearly all laid side by side at Carvel Hall. Harvey andChess and Scipio are no more. The kitchen, whither a boyish hunger oftdirected my eyes at twilight, shines not with the welcoming gleamof yore. Chess no longer prepares the dainties which astonished Mr.Carvel's guests, and which he alone could cook. The coach stillstands in the stables where Harvey left it, a lumbering relic of thoselumbering times when methinks there was more of goodwill and less ofhaste in the world. The great brass knocker, once resplendent fromScipio's careful hand, no longer fantastically reflects the guest ashe beats his tattoo, and Mr. Peale's portrait of my grandfather is gonefrom the dining-room wall, adorning, as you know, our own drawing-roomat Calvert House.

  I shut my eyes, and there comes to me unbidden that dining-room inMarlborough 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 andhis blue velvet coat, seated at the head of the table, and the preciseScipio has put down the dumb-waiter filled with shining cut-glass at hisleft hand, and his wine chest at his right, and with solemn pomp drivenhis 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 decanteron the corner of the table and draws nearer the fire, his guestsfollowing. I recall well how jolly Governor Sharpe, who was a frequentvisitor with us, was wont to display a comely calf in silk stocking; andhow Captain Daniel Clapsaddle would spread his feet with his toes out,and settle his long pipe between his teeth. And there were besidesa host of others who sat at that fire whose names have passed intoMaryland's history,--Whig
and Tory alike. And I remember a tall slipof 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'scoat of arms, and Mistress Dorothy and her mother within. And my younglady gives me one of those demure bows which ever set my heart agoinglike a smith's hammer of a Monday.