“I was sitting down, after a good dinner, with a bottle of Madeira before me, when I heard an unusual noise in the street, and a huzza from the boys. I was on the second story, and, stepping to the window, saw a tall figure in tarnished regimentals, with a large cocked hat and an enormously long sword, followed by a crowd of boys, who occasionally cheered him with huzzas, of which he seemed quite unaware. He came up to my door and stopped. I could see no more--my heart told me it was Ethan Allen. I shut my window, and retired behind my table and my bottle. I was certain the hour of reckoning had come--there was no retreat. Mr. Staples, my clerk, came in, paler than ever, clasping his hands--‘Master, he has come!’ ‘I know it.’ I made up my mind, looked at the Madeira, possibly took a glass. ‘Show him up, and if such Madeira cannot mollify him, he must be harder than adamant.’ There was a fearful moment of suspense; I heard him on the stairs, his long sword clanking at every step. In he stalked. ‘Is your name James Rivington?’ ‘It is, sir, and no man can be more delighted to see Colonel Ethan Allen.’ ‘Sir, I have come----’ ‘Not another word, my dear Colonel, until you have taken a seat and a glass of old Madeira.’ ‘But, sir, I don’t think it proper--’ ‘Not another word, Colonel, but taste this wine; I have had it in glass ten years.’ He took the glass, swallowed the wine, smacked his lips, and shook his head approvingly. ‘Sir, I come----’ ‘Not another word until you have taken another glass, and then, my dear Colonel, we will talk of old officers, and I have some queer events to detail.’ In short, we finished three bottles of Madeira, and parted as good friends as if we never had cause to be otherwise.” In England, to return there, John Rivington was still successfully fostering his father’s business. A quiet and sedate man, with nothing of James’ rashness and venture about him, he is described by West as being stout and well formed, particularly neat in his person, of dignified and gentlemanly address, going with gold-headed cane and nosegay twice a day to service at St. Paul’s--as befitted the great religious publisher of the day, and living generally upon the most friendly terms with the members of the Episcopal Bench, and breakfasting every alternate Monday with Bishop Seeker at Lambeth. A kind master, too, for coming back on the 30th of January, from service, and finding his sons and clerks plodding at the desk--“Tous, sous, how is this?--I always put my shutters up on this day.” In May, 1743, he married a sister of Sir Francis Gosling, Alderman, afterwards Lord Mayor, and as she brought him a fortune and fifteen children, the match may probably be considered a prosperous one.