There was cider, ale, brandy, and plenty of good Bordeaux wine, some which Colonel Esmond himself had brought home with him to the colony, and which was fit for ponteeficis coenis, said little Mr.Dempster, with a wink to Mr.Broadbent, the clergyman of the adjoining parish.

Mr.Broadbent returned the wink and nod, and drank the wine without caring about the Latin, as why should he, never having hitherto troubled himself about the language?
Mr.
Broadbent was a gambling, guzzling, cock-fighting divine, who had passed much time in the Fleet Prison, at Newmarket, at Hockley-in-the-Hole; and having gone of all sorts of errands for his friend, Lord Cingbars, Lord Ringwood's son (my Lady Cingbars's waiting-woman being Mr.B.'s mother--I dare say the modern reader had best not be too particular regarding Mr.Broadbent's father's pedigree), had been of late sent out to a church-living in Virginia.

He and young George had fought many a match of cocks together, taken many a roe in company, hauled in countless quantities of shad and salmon, slain wild geese and wild swans, pigeons and plovers, and destroyed myriads of canvas-backed ducks.

It was said by the envious that Broadbent was the midnight poacher on whom Mr.Washington set his dogs, and whom he caned by the river-side at Mount Vernon.

The fellow got away from his captor's grip, and scrambled to his boat in the dark; but Broadbent was laid up for two Sundays afterwards, and when he came abroad again had the evident remains of a black eye and a new collar to his coat.