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"NICHOLAS J. GRIFFIN, Esq., Secretary of the Hibernian Society of Philadelphia. "Dear Sir, I have your personal note accompanying the card of invitation to dine with your ancient and honourable Society on their one hundred and fourteenth anniversary, St. Patrick's Day, and I sincerely regret that I cannot accept it.
The worthy captain had no more precise ideas of what a vice-governor means than the American people just now seem to possess of the signification of vice-president; but, as he had discovered that the word was pronounced "veechy" in Italian, he was quite willing to give it its true sound; albeit a smile struggled round the mouth of Griffin while he listened.
Very early he wrote a long letter, sealed it and put it in his pocket so that he could register it in person. It was addressed to the British Ambassador. As Mark passed on his way to the dining room, the hotel clerk gave him a note, remarking: "That's a bad-looking hand you have, Mr. Griffin." "Yes, rather." Mark looked at his hand as though noticing its condition for the first time.
The citizens were greatly frightened, and bitterly blamed the old man for telling about the Minor Canon. "It is plain," they said, "that the Griffin intended at last to go and look for him, and we should have been saved. Now who can tell what misery you have brought upon us." The Griffin did not remain long in the little field.
Griffin's Battery, indeed, starts first, but, owing to the mistake of one of his officers, it has to be countermarched, so that Ricketts's is thrown to the front, and, as we have seen, first reaches the crest of the Henry House hill. Griffin, as he comes up with his guns, goes into battery on the left of Ricketts, and at once opens briskly on the Enemy.
It was the first sacrifice to the valley for the fleece. In the depths of these Lakes or on their shores were buried the bones of these French mariners who, first of Europeans, trusted themselves to sails and west winds on those uncharted seas. But this is not the all of the tragic story. The Griffin carried in her the prophecies of other than lake vessels.
The two passed across the lawn, then down the street and along the road toward the great house whose towers looked out over the trees. Neither Mark nor the priest said a word until the town was well behind them. Then Father Murray turned to his companion. "You will find Miss Atheson a remarkable woman, Mr. Griffin.
In the beginning of the last century, a comedian of the name of Griffin, celebrated for his talents as a mimic, was employed by a comic author to imitate the personal peculiarities of the celebrated Dr. Woodward, whom he intended to be introduced in a comedy as Dr. Fossil.
The Minor Canon looked at the frightful creature before him and saw that it was, without doubt, exactly like the stone image on the church. "Yes," he said, "you are right." "Well, then," said the Griffin, "will you take me to it? I wish very much to see it."
Within a few minutes after his arrival came a pardon, with which he hastened to the ship, where he met the young man's father, in the greatest agony, as he was returning from taking, as he supposed, his last farewell of his son. Mr. Griffin entered the vessel at the moment when the prisoner, pinioned for execution, was advancing towards the fatal spot.
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