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Richard Carvel   By: (1871-1947)

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By Winston Churchill


Volume 1. I. Lionel Carvel, of Carvel Hall II. Some Memories of Childhood III. Caught by the Tide IV. Grafton would heal an Old Breach V. "If Ladies be but Young and Fair" VI. I first suffer for the Cause VII. Grafton has his Chance

Volume 2. VIII. Over the Wall IX. Under False Colours X. The Red in the Carvel Blood XI. A Festival and a Parting XII. News from a Far Country

Volume 3. XIII. Mr. Allen shows his Hand XIV. The Volte Coupe XV. Of which the Rector has the Worst XVI. In which Some Things are made Clear XVII. South River XVIII. The Black Moll

Volume 4. XIX. A Man of Destiny XX. A Sad Home coming XXI. The Gardener's Cottage XXII. On the Road XXIII. London Town XXIV. Castle Yard XXV. The Rescue

Volume 5. XXVI. The Part Horatio played XXVII. In which I am sore tempted XXVIII. Arlington Street XXIX. I meet a very Great Young Man XXX. A Conspiracy XXXI. "Upstairs into the World" XXXII. Lady Tankerville's Drum major XXXIII. Drury Lane

Volume 6. XXXIV. His Grace makes Advances XXXV. In which my Lord Baltimore appears XXXVI. A Glimpse of Mr. Garrick XXXVII. The Serpentine XXXVIII. In which I am roundly brought to task XXXIX. Holland House XL. Vauxhall XLI. The Wilderness

Volume 7. XLII. My Friends are proven XLIII. Annapolis once more XLIV. Noblesse Oblige XLV. The House of Memories XLVI. Gordon's Pride XLVII. Visitors XLVIII. Multum in Parvo XLIX. Liberty loses a Friend

Volume 8. L. Farewell to Gordon's LI. How an Idle Prophecy came to pass 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


My 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 reading them, I live his life over again.

Needless to say, Mr. Richard 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 the 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.




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