with those who cultivate a vice as if it were a hot-house plant. The Major
was fond of his bottle, drinking heavily of Madeira, of which there was
then a good stock in Boston, for he brought some on himself; and I can
remember various scenes that occurred between him and my grandfather, after
dinner, as they sat discoursing in the tavern on the progress of things,
and the prospects for the future. Had these two old soldiers been of the
troops of the province in which they were, it would have been "Major" and
"Captain" at every breath; for no part of the earth is fonder of titles
than our eastern brethren; [1] whereas, I must think we had some claims to
more true simplicity of character and habits, notwithstanding New York has
ever been thought the most aristocratical of all the northern colonies.
Having been intimate from early youth, my two old soldiers familiarly
called each other Joey and Hodge, the latter being the abbreviation of
one of my grandfather's names, Roger, when plain Hugh was not used, as
sometimes happened between them. Hugh Roger Littlepage, I ought to have
said, was my grandfather's name.

"I should like these Yankees better, if they prayed less, my old friend,"
said the Major, one day, after they had been discussing the appearances of
things, and speaking between the puffs of his pipe. "I can see no great use
in losing so much time, by making these halts to pray, when the campaign is
fairly opened."

"It was always their way, Joey," my grandfather answered, taking his time,
as is customary with smokers. "I remember when we were out together, in the
year '17, that the New England troops always had their parsons, who acted
as a sort of second colonels. They tell me His Excellency has ordered a
weekly fast, for public prayers, during the whole of this campaign."

"Ay, Master Hodge, praying and plundering; so they go on," returned the