THE LITTLE LORD OF THE MANOR[B]

THE LITTLE LORD OF THE MANOR[B]

By E. S. Brooks

A picture of Evacuation Day in New York, in 1783, when the British troops hauled down their flag and sailed away from free America. A little lost lord, his distracted Tory grandfather, and some kind-hearted American children are the principal characters. And we are told how little Mistress Dolly Duane “won the distinguished honor of being kissed by both Commanders-in-Chief on the same eventful day.”

IT WAS the 25th of November, 1783—a brilliant day, clear, crisp, and invigorating, with just enough of frosty air to flush the eager cheeks and nip the inquisitive noses of every boy and girl in the excited crowd that filled the Bowery lane from Harlem to the barriers, and pressed fast upon the heels of General Knox’s advance detachment of Continental troops marching to the position assigned them, near the “tea-water pump.” In the Duane mansion a fire was blazing brightly and Mistress Dolly’s pet cat was purring comfortably in the cheerful light. But Mistress Dolly herself cared just now for neither cat nor comfort. She, too, was on the highway watching for the exciting events that were to make this Evacuation Day in New York one of the most memorable occasions in the history of the chief American city.

At some points the crowd was especially pushing and persistent, and Mistress Dolly Duane was decidedly uncomfortable. For little Dolly detested crowds, as, in fact, she detested everything that interfered with the comfort of a certain dainty little maiden of thirteen. And she was just on the point of expressing to her cousin, young Edward Livingston, her regret that they had not stayed to witness the procession from the tumbledown gateway of the Duane country-house, near the King’s Bridge road, when, out from the crowd, came the sound of a child’s voice, shrill and complaining.

“Keep off, you big, bad man!” it said; “keep off and let me pass! How dare you crowd me so, you wicked rebels?”

“Rebels, hey?” a harsh and mocking voice exclaimed. “Rebels! Heard ye that, mates? Well crowed, my little cockerel. Let’s have a look at you,” and a burly arm rudely parted the pushing crowd and dragged out of the press a slight, dark-haired little fellow of seven or eight, clad in velvet and ruffles.

“Put me down! Put me down, I say!” screamed the boy, his small face flushed with passion. “Put me down, I tell you, or I’ll bid Angevine horsewhip you!”

“Hark to the little Tory,” growled his captor. “A rare young bird, now, isn’t he? Horsewhip us, d’ye say—us, free American citizens? And who may you be, my little beggar?”

“I am no beggar, you bad man,” cried the child angrily. “I am the little lord of the manor.”

“Lord of the manor! Ho, ho, ho!” laughed the big fellow. “Give us grace, your worship,” he said, with mock humility. “Lord of the manor! Look at him, mates,” and he held the struggling little lad toward the laughing crowd. “Why, there are no lords nor manors now in free America, my bantam.”

“But I am, I tell you!” protested the boy. “That’s what my grandfather calls me—oh, where is he? Take me to him, please: he calls me the little lord of the manor.”

“Who’s your grandfather?” demanded the man.

“Who? Why, don’t you know?” the “little lord” asked incredulously. “Everybody knows my grandfather, I thought. He is Colonel Phillipse, Baron of Phillipsbourg, and lord of the manor; and he’ll kill you if you hurt me,” he added defiantly.

“Phillipse, the king of Yonckers! Phillipse, the fat old Tory of West Chester! A prize, a prize, mates!” shouted the bully. “What say you? Shall we hold this young bantling hostage for the tainted Tory, his grandfather, and when once we get the old fellow serve him as we did the refugee at Wall-kill t’ other day?”

“What did you do?” the crowd asked.

“Faith, we tarred and feathered him well, put a hog-yoke on his neck and a cow-bell, too, and then rode him on a rail till he cheered for the Congress.”

“Treat my grandfather like that—my good grandfather? You shall not! you dare not!” cried the small Phillipse, with a flood of angry tears, as he struggled and fought in his captor’s clutch.

Dolly Duane’s kindly heart was filled with pity at the rough usage of the “little lord.”

“Oh, sir,” she said, as she pushed through the crowd and laid her hand on the big bully’s arm, “let the child go. ’Tis unmannerly to treat him as you do, and you’re very, very cruel.”

The fellow turned roughly around and looked down into Dolly’s disturbed and protesting face.

“What, another of ’em?” he said surlily. “Why, the place is full of little Tories.”

“No, no; no Tory I!” said indignant Dolly. “My father is Mr. Duane, and he is no Tory.”

“Mr. Duane, of the Congress?” “Give up the lad to the maid.” “Why harm the child?” came mingled voices from the crowd.

“What care I for Duane!” said the bully contemptuously. “One man’s as good as another now in free America—isn’t he? Bah! you’re all cowards; but I know when I’ve got a good thing. You don’t bag a Phillipse every day, I’ll warrant you.”

“No; but we bag other game once in a while,” said Dolly’s cousin, young Edward Livingston, pushing his way to her side. “We bag turncoats, and thieves, and murthering runagates sometimes, even in ‘free America’; and we know what to do with them when we do bag them. Friends,” he cried, turning to the crowd, “do you know this fellow? He’s a greater prize than the little Phillipse. ’Tis Big Jake of the Saw-mill—a ‘skinner’ one day and a ‘cow-boy’ next, as it suits his fancy and as it brings him booty. I know him, and so does the water-guard. I am Livingston, of Clermont Manor. Let down the lad, man, or we’ll turn you over to the town-major. He’d like rarely to have a chance at you.”

The crowd uttered a cry of rage as it closed excitedly around the burly member of the lawless gang that had preyed upon the defenceless people of the lower Hudson during the years of war and raid. The bully paled at the sound, and loosed his hold upon the little Phillipse. Without waiting to see the issue, young Livingston dragged the “little lord” from the throng, while his companion, Master Clinton, hurried Dolly along, and they were soon free from the crowd that was dealing roughly enough with Big Jake of the Saw-mill.

“Now, Dolly, let us go back to the farm before we get into further trouble,” said Cousin Ned, a pleasant young fellow of eighteen, who looked upon himself as the lawful protector of “the children.”

“But what shall we do with our little lord of the manor, Cousin Ned?” asked Dolly.

“The safest plan is to take him with us,” he replied.

“Oh, no, sir; no,” pleaded the little boy. “We sail to-day with Sir Guy Carleton, and what will grandfather do without me?” And then he told them how, early that morning, he had slipped away from Angevine, Colonel Phillipse’s body-servant, passed through the barriers and strolled up the Bowery lane to see the “rebel soldiers”; how he had lost his way in the crowd, and was in sore distress and danger until Dolly interfered; and how he thanked them “over and over again” for protecting him. But “Oh, please, I must go back to my grandfather,” he added.

Little Mistress Dolly had a mind of her own, and she warmly championed the cause of the “lost little lord,” as she called him.

“Cousin Ned,” she said, “of course he must go to his grandfather, and of course we must take him. Think how I should feel if they tried to keep me from my father!” and Dolly’s sympathetic eyes filled at the dreadful thought.

“But how can we take him?” asked Cousin Ned. “How can we get past the barriers?”

A hundred years ago New York City proper extended northward only as far as the present post-office, and during the Revolution a line of earthworks was thrown across the island at that point to defend it against assault from the north. The British sentinels at these barriers were not to give up their posts to the Americans until one o’clock on this eventful Evacuation Day, and Cousin Ned, therefore, could not well see how they could pass the sentries.

But young Master Clinton, a bright, curly-haired boy of thirteen, said confidently: “Oh, that’s easily done.” And then, with a knowledge of the highways and byways which many rambles through the dear old town had given him, he unfolded his plan. “See here,” he said; “we’ll turn down the Monument lane, just below us, cut across through General Mortier’s woods to Mr. Nicholas Bayard’s, and so on to the Ranelagh Gardens. From there we can easily get over to the Broad Way and the Murray Street barrier before General Knox gets to the Fresh Water, where he has been ordered to halt until one o’clock. When the guard at the barrier knows that we have the little Baron of Phillipsbourg with us, and has handled the two York sixpences you will give him, of course he’ll let us pass. So, don’t you see, we can fix this little boy all right, and, better yet, can see King George’s men go out and our troops come in, and make just a splendid day of it.”

Dolly, fully alive to these glorious possibilities, clapped her hands delightedly.

“What a brain the boy has!” said young Livingston. “Keep on, my son,” he said patronizingly, “and you’ll make a great man yet.”

“So I mean to be,” said De Witt Clinton cheerily, and then, heading the little group, he followed out the route he had proposed. Ere long the barriers were safely passed, Cousin Ned was two York sixpences out of pocket, and the young people stood within the British lines.

“And now, where may we find your grandfather, little one?” Cousin Ned inquired, as they halted on the Broad Way beneath one of the tall poplars that lined that old-time street.

The little Phillipse could not well reply. The noise and confusion that filled the city had well-nigh turned his head. For what with the departing English troops, the disconsolate loyalist refugees hurrying for transportation to distant English ports, and the zealous citizens who were making great preparations to welcome the incoming soldiers of the Congress, the streets of the little city were full of bustle and excitement. The boy said his grandfather might be at the fort; he might be at the King’s Arms Tavern, near Stone Street; he might be—he would be—hunting for him.

So Master Clinton suggested: “Let’s go down to Mr. Day’s tavern here in Murray Street. He knows me, and, if he can, will find Colonel Phillipse for us.” Down into Murray Street therefore they turned, and, near the road to Greenwich, saw the tavern—a long, low-roofed house, gable end to the street—around which an excited crowd surged and shouted.

“Why, look there,” Master Clinton cried; “look there; and the king’s men not yet gone!” and, following the direction of his finger, they saw with surprise the stars and stripes, the flag of the new republic, floating from the pole before the tavern.

“Huzza!” they shouted with the rest, but the “little lord” said, somewhat contemptuously, “Why, ’tis the rebel flag—or so my grandfather calls it.”

“Rebel no longer, little one,” said Cousin Ned, “as even your good grandfather must now admit. But surely,” he added anxiously, “Mr. Day will get himself in trouble by raising his flag before our troops come in.”

An angry shout now rose from the throng around the flag-staff, and as the fringe of small boys scattered and ran in haste, young Livingston caught one of them by the arm. “What’s the trouble, lad?” he asked.

“Let go!” said the boy, struggling to free himself. “You’d better scatter, too, or Cunningham will catch you. He’s ordered down Day’s flag and says he’ll clear the crowd.”

They all knew who Cunningham was—the cruel and vindictive British provost-marshal; the starver of American prisoners and the terror of American children. “Come away, quick,” said Cousin Ned. But though they drew off at first, curiosity was too strong, and they were soon in the crowd again.

Cunningham, the marshal, stood at the foot of the flag-pole. “Come, you rebel cur,” he said to Mr. Day. “I give you two minutes to haul down that rag—two minutes, d’ye hear, or into the Provost you go. Your beggarly troops are not in possession here yet, and I’ll have no such striped rag as that flying in the faces of His Majesty’s forces!”

“There it is, and there it shall stay,” said Day, quietly but firmly.

Cunningham turned to his guard.

“Arrest that man,” he ordered. “And as for this thing here, I’ll haul it down myself,” and seizing the halyards, he began to lower the flag. The crowd broke out into fierce murmurs, uncertain what to do. But in the midst of the tumult the door of the tavern flew open, and forth sallied Mrs. Day, “fair, fat, and forty,” armed with her trusty broom.

“Hands off that flag, you villain, and drop my husband!” she cried, and before the astonished Cunningham could realize the situation, the broom came down thwack! thwack! upon his powdered wig. Old men still lived, not thirty years ago, who were boys in that excited crowd, and remembered how the powder flew from the stiff white wig and how, amidst jeers and laughter, the defeated provost-marshal withdrew from the unequal contest, and fled before the resistless sweep of Mrs. Day’s all-conquering broom. And the flag did not come down.

From the vantage-ground of a projecting “stoop” our young friends had indulged in irreverent laughter, and the marshal’s quick ears caught the sound.

Fuming with rage and seeking some one to vent his anger on, he rushed up the “stoop” and bade his guard drag down the culprits.

“What pestilent young rebels have we here?” he growled. “Who are you?” He started as they gave their names. “Livingston? Clinton? Duane?” he repeated. “Well, well—a rare lot this of the rebel brood! And who is yon young bantling in velvet and ruffles?”

“You must not stop us, sir,” said the boy, facing the angry marshal. “I am the little lord of the manor, and my grandfather is Colonel Phillipse. Sir Guy Carleton is waiting for me.”

“Well, well,” exclaimed the surprised marshal; “here’s a fine to-do! A Phillipse in this rebel lot! What does it mean? Have ye kidnapped the lad? Here may be some treachery. Bring them along!” and with as much importance as if he had captured a whole corps of Washington’s dragoons, instead of a few harmless children, the young prisoners were hurried off, followed by an indignant crowd. Dolly was considerably frightened, and dark visions of the stocks, the whipping-post, and the ducking-stool by the Collect pond rose before her eyes. But Cousin Ned whispered: “Don’t be afraid, Dolly—’twill all be right”; and Master Clinton even sought to argue with the marshal.

“There are no rebels now, sir,” he said, “since your king has given up the fight. You yourselves are rebels, rather, if you restrain us of our freedom. I know your king’s proclamation word for word. It says: ‘We do hereby strictly charge and command all our officers, both at sea and land, and all other our subjects whatsoever, to forbear all acts of hostility, either by sea or land, against the United States of America, their vassals or subjects, under the penalty of incurring our highest displeasure.’ Wherefore, Sir,” concluded this wise young pleader, “if you keep us in unlawful custody, you do brave your king’s displeasure.”

“You impudent young rebel——” began Cunningham; but the “little lord” interrupted him with: “You shall not take us to jail, sir, I will tell my grandfather, and he will make Sir Guy punish you.” And upon this the provost-marshal, whose wrath had somewhat cooled, began to fear that he might, perhaps, have exceeded his authority, and ere long, with a sour look and a surly word, he set the young people free.

Sir Guy Carleton, K. C. B., commander-in-chief of all His Majesty’s forces in the colonies, stood at the foot of the flag-staff on the northern bastion of Fort George. Before him filed the departing troops of his king, evacuating the pleasant little city they had occupied for more than seven years. “There might be seen,” says one of the old records, “the Hessian, with his towering, brass-fronted cap, moustache colored with the same blacking which colored his shoes, his hair plastered with tallow and flour, and reaching in whip-form to his waist. His uniform was a blue coat, yellow vest and breeches, and black gaiters. The Highlander, with his low checked bonnet, his tartan or plaid, short red coat, his kilt above his knees, and they exposed, his hose short and parti-colored. There were also the grenadiers of Anspach, with towering yellow caps; the gaudy Waldeckers, with their cocked hats edged with yellow scallops; the German yägers, and the various corps of English in glittering and gallant pomp.” The white-capped waves of the beautiful bay sparkled in the sunlight, while the whale-boats, barges, gigs, and launches sped over the water, bearing troops and refugees to the transports, or to the temporary camp on Staten Island. The last act of the evacuation was almost completed. But Sir Guy Carleton looked troubled. His eye wandered from the departing troops at Whitehall slip to the gate at Bowling Green, and then across the parade to the Governor’s gardens and the town beyond.

“Well, sir, what word from Colonel Phillipse?” he inquired, as an aide hurried to his side.

“He bids you go without him, General,” the aide reported. “The boy is not yet found, but the Colonel says he will risk seizure rather than leave the lad behind.”

“It cannot well be helped,” said the British commander. “I will myself dispatch a line to General Washington, requesting due courtesy and safe conduct for Colonel Phillipse and his missing heir. But see—whom have we here?” he asked, as across the parade came a rumbling coach, while behind it a covered cariole came tearing through the gateway. Ere the bastion on which the General stood was reached the cariole drew up with sudden stop. Angevine, the black body-servant, sprang to the horses’ heads, and a very large man hatless, though richly dressed, descended hastily and flung open the door of the coach just as Mistress Dolly was preparing to descend, and as he helped her out he caught in his ample arms the little fellow who followed close at her heels.

“Good; the lost is found!” exclaimed Sir Guy, who had been an interested spectator of the pantomime.

“All is well, General,” Colonel Phillipse cried joyfully, as the commander came down from the bastion and welcomed the new-comers. “My little lord of the manor is found; and, faith, his loss troubled me more than all the attainder and forfeiture the rebel Congress can crowd upon me.”

“But how got he here?” Sir Guy asked.

“This fair little lady is both his rescuer and protector,” replied the grandfather.

“And who may you be, little mistress?” asked the commander-in-chief.

Dolly made a neat little curtsy, for those were the days of good manners, and she was a proper little damsel. “I am Dolly Duane, your Excellency,” she said, “daughter of Mr. James Duane of the Congress.”

“Duane!” exclaimed the Colonel; “Well, well, little one, I did not think a Phillipse would ever acknowledge himself debtor to a Duane, but now do I gladly do it. Bear my compliments to your father, sweet Mistress Dolly, and tell him that his old enemy, Phillipse, of Phillipsbourg, will never forget the kindly aid of his gentle little daughter, who has this day restored a lost lad to a sorrowing grandfather. And let me thus show my gratitude for your love and service,” and the very large man, stooping in all courtesy before the little girl, laid his hand in blessing on her head, and kissed her fair young face.

“A rare little maiden, truly,” said gallant Sir Guy: “and though I have small cause to favor so hot an enemy of the king as is Mr. James Duane, I admire his dutiful little daughter; and thus would I, too, render her love and service,” and the gleaming scarlet and gold-laced arms of the courtly old commander encircled fair Mistress Dolly, and a hearty kiss fell upon her blushing cheeks. But she was equal to the occasion. Raising herself on tiptoe, she dropped a dainty kiss upon the General’s smiling face, and said, “Let this, sir, be America’s good-bye kiss to your Excellency.”

“A right royal salute,” said Sir Guy. “Mr. De Lancy, bid the band-master give us the farewell march,” and to the strains of appropriate music the commander-in-chief and his staff passed down to the boats and the little lord of Phillipse Manor waved Mistress Dolly a last farewell.

Then the Red Cross of St. George, England’s royal flag, came fluttering down from its high staff on the north bastion, and the last of the rear-guard wheeled toward the slip. But Cunningham, the provost-marshal, still angered by the thought of his discomfiture at Day’s tavern, declared roundly that no rebel flag should go up that staff in sight of King George’s men. “Come lively now, you blue jackets,” he shouted, turning to some of the sailors from the fleet. “Unreeve the halyards, quick; slush down the pole; knock off the stepping-cleats! Then let them run their rag up if they can.” His orders were quickly obeyed. The halyards were speedily cut, the stepping-cleats knocked from the staff, and the tall pole covered with grease, so that none might climb it. And with this final act of unsoldierly discourtesy, the memory of which has lived through a hundred busy years, the provost-marshal left the now liberated city.

Even Sir Guy’s gallant kiss could not rid Dolly of her fear of Cunningham’s frown; but as she scampered off she heard his final order, and, hot with indignation, told the news to Cousin Ned and Master Clinton, who were in waiting for her on the Bowling Green. The younger lad was for stirring up the people to instant action, but just then they heard the roll of drums, and, standing near the ruins of King George’s statue, watched the advance-guard of the Continental troops as they filed in to take possession of the fort. Beneath the high gateway and straight toward the north bastion marched the detachment—a troop of horse, a regiment of infantry, and a company of artillery. The batteries, the parapets, and the ramparts were thronged with cheering people, and Colonel Jackson, halting before the flag-staff, ordered up the stars and stripes.

“The halyards are cut, Colonel,” reported the color-sergeant; “the cleats are gone, and the pole is slushed.”

“A mean trick, indeed,” exclaimed the indignant Colonel. “Hallo there, lads, will you be outwitted by such a scurvy trick! Look where they wait in their boats to give us the laugh. Will you let tainted Tories and buttermilk Whigs thus shame us? A gold jacobus to him who will climb the staff and reeve the halyards for the stars and stripes.”

Dolly’s quick ear caught the ringing words. “Oh, Cousin Ned,” she cried, “I saw Jacky Van Arsdale on the Bowling Green. Don’t you remember how he climbed the greased pole at Clermont, in the May merrying?” and with that she sped across the parade and through the gateway, returning soon with a stout sailor-boy of fifteen. “Now tell the Colonel you’ll try it, Jacky.”

“Go it, Jack!” shouted Cousin Ned. “I’ll make the gold jacobus two if you but reeve the halyards.”

“I want no money for the job, Master Livingston,” said the sailor-lad. “I’ll do it if I can for Mistress Dolly’s sake.”

Jack was an expert climber, but if any of my boy readers think it a simple thing to “shin up” a greased pole, just let them try it once—and fail.

Jack Van Arsdale tried it manfully once, twice, thrice, and each time came slipping down covered with slush and shame. And all the watchers in the boats off-shore joined in a chorus of laughs and jeers. Jack shook his fist at them angrily. “I’ll fix ’em yet,” he said. “If ye’ll but saw me up some cleats, and give me hammer and nails, I’ll run that flag to the top in spite of all the Tories from ’Sopus to Sandy Hook!”

Ready hands and willing feet came to the assistance of the plucky lad. Some ran swiftly to Mr. Goelet’s, “the iron-monger’s” in Hanover Square, and brought quickly back “a hand-saw, hatchet, hammer, gimlets, and nails”; others drew a long board to the bastion, and while one sawed the board into lengths, another split the strips into cleats, others bored the nail-holes, and soon young Jack had material enough.

Then, tying the halyards around his waist, and filling his jacket pockets with cleats and nails, he worked his way up the flag-pole, nailing and climbing as he went. And now he reaches the top, now the halyards are reeved, and as the beautiful flag goes fluttering up the staff a mighty cheer is heard, and a round of thirteen guns salutes the stars and stripes and the brave sailor-boy who did the gallant deed!

From the city streets came the roll and rumble of distant drums, and Dolly and her two companions, following the excited crowd, hastened across Hanover Square, and from an excellent outlook in the Fly Market watched the whole grand procession as it wound down Queen (now Pearl) Street, making its triumphal entry into the welcoming city. First came a corps of dragoons, then followed the advance-guard of light infantry and a corps of artillery, then more light infantry, a battalion of Massachusetts troops, and the rear-guard. As the veterans, with their soiled and faded uniforms, filed past, Dolly could not help contrasting them with the brilliant appearance of the British troops she had seen in the fort. “Their clothes do look worn and rusty,” she said. “But then,” she added, with beaming eyes, “they are our soldiers, and that is everything.”

And now she hears “a great hozaing all down the Fly,” as one record queerly puts it, and as the shouts increase, she sees a throng of horsemen, where, escorted by Captain Delavan’s “West Chester Light Horse,” ride the heroes of that happy hour, General George Washington and Governor George Clinton. Dolly added her clear little treble to the loud huzzas as the famous commander-in-chief rode down the echoing street. Behind their excellencies came other officials, dignitaries, army officers, and files of citizens, on horseback and afoot, many of the latter returning to dismantled and ruined homes after nearly eight years of exile.

But Dolly did not wait to see the whole procession. She had spied her father in the line of mounted citizens and flying across Queen Street, and around by Golden Hill (near Maiden Lane), where the first blood of the Revolution was spilled, she hurried down the Broad Way, so as to reach Mr. Cape’s tavern before their excellencies arrived.

Soon she was in her father’s arms relating her adventures, and as she received his chidings for mingling in such “unseemly crowds,” and his praise for her championship and protection of the little Phillipse, a kindly hand was laid upon her fair young head, and a voice whose tones she could never forget said: “So may our children be angels of peace, Mr. Duane. Few have suffered more, or deserved better from their country, sir, than you; but the possession of so rare a little daughter is a fairer recompense than aught your country can bestow. Heaven has given me no children, sir; but had I thus been blessed, I could have wished for no gentler or truer-hearted little daughter than this maid of yours.” And with the stately courtesy that marked the time, General Washington bent down and kissed little Dolly as she sat on her father’s knee. Touched by his kindly words, Dolly forgot all her awe of the great man. Flinging two winsome arms about his neck, she kissed him in return, and said softly: “If Mr. Duane were not my father, sir, I would rather it should be you than any one else.”

In all her after-life, though she retained pleasant memories of Sir Guy Carleton, and thought him a grand and gallant gentleman, Dolly Duane held still more firmly to her reverence and affection for General Washington, whom she described as “looking more grand and noble than any human being she had ever seen.”

Next to General Washington, I think she held the fireworks that were set off in the Bowling Green in honor of the Peace to have been the grandest thing she had ever seen. The rockets, and the wheels, and the tourbillions, and the batteries, and the stars were all so wonderful to her, that General Knox said Dolly’s “ohs” and “ahs” were “as good as a play”; and staid Master Clinton and jolly Cousin Ned threatened to send to the Ferry stairs for an anchor to hold her down. Both these young gentlemen grew to be famous Americans in after years, and witnessed many anniversaries of this glorious Evacuation Day. But they never enjoyed any of them quite as much as they did the exciting original, nor could they ever forget, amidst all the throng of memories, how sweet Mistress Dolly Duane championed and protected the lost “little lord of the manor,” and won the distinguished honor of being kissed by both the commanders-in-chief on the same eventful day.