“But, to come back to my story—you must know that the Governor’s Guards, in Boston, are a gay set of youngsters, and, at their annual dinner at the State House, they make the corks fly as I’ve seen only grape shot showering from a battery. Well—no disrespect to the cloth—their dinner is always opened and closed by a parson; and a good rule it is; for when the governor sees that his youngsters are getting heady, he has but to give a nod—the benediction is pronounced, and they are forced to break up. When I was there, however, his excellency postponed the dismissal rather too long, so that when he gave the signal to the parson, there wasn’t a chap, at the lower end of the table, who could carry his wine to his mouth without spilling half of the liquid. A blessed sight it was to see them then—as proper a set of youngsters, in general, as you’d wish to look upon—shouting, laughing, singing, standing in chairs, waving their glasses on high, and altogether cutting a figure not the most pleasant for a moral man like me to behold. They saw the parson get up and they heard him begin to speak, but they were too far gone to distinguish either his person or his words. “‘Hilloo, Bill,’ said one to his neighbor, ‘is that a new toast? What does he say?’ “‘Can’t—make—it out,’ hiccuped Bill, with drunken gravity, ‘but I guess—it’s—it’s—something con—found—ed fine. Let’s give the old cock three cheers,’ and the whole set sprang to their feet and huzzaed ’til the very roof above us seemed to tremble with the din. The poor parson hesitated, stopped, and looked in bewilderment at his excellency—who could only keep himself from laughing, so inexpressibly ludicrous was the whole scene, by hanging his head down and cramming his handkerchief into his mouth. As for the rest of us, there was no resisting it—we laid back in our chairs and laughed until the tears ran out of our eyes,—while the ladies in the gallery, the dear creatures, almost burst their boddice strings. “His excellency explained all to the parson the next day, and made a thousand apologies—but the good man never could be got again to ask a benediction over the Governor’s Guards.” “I suppose you tell that for the morals of your table, eh!” said one of the party. “Exactly,” answered the president, laughing, “and I never saw one yet whom it didn’t cure of excess at table, except a fellow who used to say it was hereditary in him, by the mother’s side, to have the cholic, and that brandy was the only cure. That chap was a character: I’ve a story I’ll tell you about him some of these days.” “Why not now?” asked a dozen in a breath. “Well, I suppose if I must I must,—but first pass us the bottle, and let us drink to his memory—he died, poor fellow, in Florida, where many a brave man has laid his bones. Here’s to Tim O’Donnell.” A silence of a few moments having elapsed, during which all eyes were turned on the president, that personage, after hemming twice, thus began.