He was a living example of the doctrine of total depravity in what purported to be a man.

There was John Churchill, a very decent fellow in a politic way, though in bad company.

He afterward married my laconic cousin Sarah, whose shrewdness made him the first Duke of Marlborough, and last, I regret to chronicle, was George Hamilton, resting from his labors at self-reform.

Soon after dark another congenial spirit, the most pusillanimous of them all, young William Wentworth, Sir William's son and Roger's nephew, entered the taproom dripping with rain.
Before going to the fire, he called Crofts and Berkeley to one side.
Placing his arms about their necks, he drew their faces close to his and made the following remarkable communication in a low whisper:-- "At the supper table, to-night, my worthy sire let slip the information that my good uncle of Sundridge had been expected this afternoon.

He had not arrived when I left home fifteen minutes ago, but probably is stuck in the mud a mile or two outside of London on the St.Albans road." "Let him stick! What is it to us ?" asked Crofts.
"Thus much it is to me," answered Wentworth.