CORNELL 
 
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 E296 .L76 
 
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'^lyyeJ'-WASHINGTON AND HIS MEN.-"l776-" 
 
 WASHINGTON AND HIS MEN. Second Series of LEGENDS OF THE AMERICAN REVOLUTION. 
 
 WASHINGTON 
 
 BEING 
 
 THE "SECOND SERIES" OF THE "LEGENDS OF THE AMERICAN REVOLUTION?' 
 
 BY GEORGE LIPPARD. 
 
 AUTHOR OF "TrtK QUAKEK CITY; OR, THE MONKS OF MONK HALL;" "TUB LBGENDS OF THE 
 
 AMpVaC A-N REVOLUTION" "PAUL AHBBNIIEIM, THE MONK OF WISSAIllKON;" "BLANCHE 
 
 OP RMaSyWIN "" '"THE MYSTERIES OP FLORENCE;" "THE MEMOIRS OF A 
 
 PBEAraiX' "THE EMWRE CITY;" "THE ENTRANCED;" ETC., I^TC. 
 
 PHILADELPHIA: 
 T. B. PETERSON & BEOTHERS. 
 
George Lippard's Works. 
 
 T. B. PETERSON & JBMOTHEBS, No. 306 Chestnut Street, Philadelphia, hive just published 
 an entire new, complete, and uniform edition of all the celebrated works written by the popular American 
 Historian and Novelist, Oeorge Lippard. Every Family and every Library in this country, should have 
 in it a set of this new edition of the works of Oeorge Lippard. The following is a complete 
 
 LIST OP GEORGE LIPPARD'S WORKS. 
 
 THE LEGENDS OP THE AMERICAN REVOLUTION, 1776; or, 
 WASHINGTON AND HIS GENERALS. By George Lippard. With a steel En- 
 graving of the "Battle of Germantown," at "Chew's House." Complete in one large octavo 
 volume. Price $1.50 in paper cover, or bound in morocco cloth, price $2.00. 
 
 THE QUAKER CITY; or, THE MONKS OP MONK HALL. A Romance 
 of Philadelphia Life, Mystery, and Crime. By George Lippard. With his Portrait 
 and Autograph. Complete in one large octavo volume, price $1.50 in paper cover, or bound in 
 morocco cloth, price $2.00. 
 
 PAUL ARDENHEIM, THE MONK OP WISSAHIKON. A Romance of 
 the American Revolution, 1776. By George Lippard. Illustrated. Complete in one 
 large octavo volume, price $1.50 in paper cover, or bound in morocco cloth, price $2.00. 
 
 BLANCHE OP BRAND YWINE ; or, SEPTEMBER THE ELEVENTH, 
 1777. By George Lippard. A Bomance of the Bevolution, as well as of the Poetry, Legends, 
 and History of the Battle of Brandywine. Complete in one large octavo volume, price $1.50 in 
 paper cover, or bound in morocco cloth, price $2.00. 
 
 THE MYSTERIES OP PLORENCE; or, THE CRIMES AND MYS- 
 TERIES OP THE HOUSE OP ALBARONE. By George Lippard. Complete 
 in one large octavo volume, price $1.00 in paper cover, or $2.00 in cloth. 
 
 "WASHINGTON AND HIS MEN. Being the Second Series of the Legends 
 of the American Revolution, 1776., By George Lippard. With Illustrations. Complete 
 in" one large octavo volume, paper cover, price 75 cents. 
 
 THE MEMOIRS OP A PREACHER; or, THE MYSTERIES OP THE 
 PULPIT. By George Lippard. With Illustrations. Complete in one large octavo volume, 
 paper cover, price 75 cents. 
 
 THE EMPIRE CITY; or, NEW YORK BY NIGHT AND DAY. Its 
 
 Aristocracy and its Dollars. By George Lippard. Complete in one large octavo volume, 
 paper cover, price 75 cents. 
 
 THE NAZARENE; or, THE LAST OP THE WASHINGTONS. By 
 
 George Lippard. A Eevelation of Philadelphia, New York, and Washington. Complete in 
 one large octavo volume, paper cover, price 75 cents. 
 
 THE ENTRANCED; or, THE WANDERER OP EIGHTEEN CEN- 
 TURIES, containing also, Jesus and the Poor, the Heart Broken, etc. By George Lippard. 
 Complete in one large octavo volume, paper cover, price 50 cents. 
 
 THE LEGENDS OP MEXICO. By George Lippard. Comprising Legends and His- 
 torical Pictures of the Camp in the Wilderness; The Sisters of Monterey; The Dead Woman 
 of Palo Alto, etc. Complete in one large octavo volume, paper cover, price 50 cents. 
 
 THE BANK DIRECTOR'S SON. A Eevelation of Life in a Great City. By George 
 Lippard. Complete in one large octavo volume, paper cover, price 25 cents. 
 
 J5®" Above Books are for sale by all Booksellers, or copies of either one or more of the above books 
 or a complete set of them, will be sent at once, to any one, to any place, postage pre-paid, or free of 
 freight, on remitting the price of the ones wanted, in a letter to 
 
 T. B. PETEBSON & BMOTHBMS, Pubi^isbmbs, 
 
 306 Chestmet Street, Philadelphia, Pa. 
 
WASfflNG'ffl AND HIS MM. 
 
 BEING THE, 
 
 "SECOND SEEIE8" 
 
 OF THE 
 
 LEGENDS OF THE AMERICAN REYOLUTION, OF "1776. 
 
 BY GEORGE IJPPARD. 
 
 AUTHOR OF "THE LEGENDS OF THE AMERICAN REVOLUTldl^," "THE QUAKER CITY; OR, THE MONKS 
 
 OF MONK HALL;" "BLANCHE OP BRANDYWINE;" "PAUL ARDENHEIM, THE MONK OF WISSA- 
 
 HIKON;" "THE MYSTERIES OF FLOREiNCE;" "THE MEMOIRS OF A PREACHER;" 
 
 "THE EMPIRE CITY;" "THE BANK DIRECTOR'S SON; " " THE ENTRANCED; " 
 
 "THE NAZAEENE;" "THE LEGENDS OF MEXICO," ETC. 
 
 *^ Washington and Bis Men" is the ^^ Second Senes" of *^Tke Legends of Lite American Revolution "and comprises some of the 
 Jinest writings and pen-pictures that have ever been contHbuted by any Amencan author to the Literature of our Country. The 
 volume contains the following soul-stirring Legends, written in Lippard^s most captivating manner, viz: "The Last of the Wash- 
 ingtons" ^'The Mother''s Prayer," "The Youth of Washington," "The Boy and the Boole," "The Challenge," "The Duel; or. 
 Courage ifiat is not afraid of the name of '■Goivard,^" "The Hunter of t?ie AUeghenies," "The Battle of Monongahela," "Wash- 
 ington in Love," "The Death of Braddock," "The King and the Planter" "WasJiington's Christmas, u Legend of Valley 
 ■Forge," "The FourtJi of July, 1776, and the Declaration, as well as the Signers of the Declaration of Independence," "Herbert Tracy; 
 or, The Legend of the Black Rangers, a Romance of the Battle of Germaniown," "The Quaker and his Cause," "The Maiden," 
 "The Betrothed," "The Bridegroom," "The Valley of the Wissahikon," "The Bridal Party," "The Pursuit," "The Council," "Tfie 
 Battle Mom" "The Clmrge," "The Attack," "The Chase," "The Havoc," "CJiew^s House" "Meeting between Father and Son," 
 "Sunset upon the Battle Field," "The Ball from the Grave Yard," "The Re-Vhion," and "The Exile," in fact, all that survives, 
 either of fact or legend, of tlte battles and battle men of the Revolution, are brought to light, and painted before us, so that we can 
 look upon every feature of the perilous times of " 1776." Painted indeed. Of all the American autlwrs, poets, or novelists, living 
 or dead, Lippard comes nearest to the painter, so perfect and powerful are his descriptions. What a magnijicent picture might 
 he made of his "Sunset upon the Battlefield," contained in this volume. 
 
 PHILADELPHIA: 
 T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS; 
 
 306 CHESTNUT STREET. 
 
 ^U 
 
kf] If- 
 
 I ir 
 
 Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1876, by 
 
 T. B. PETEESON & BROTHEKS, 
 
 In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington, D. C. 
 
 ■ GEORGE LIPPARD'S COMPLETE WORKS. 
 
 T. B. PETEESON & BROTHERS, Philadelphia, have just published an entire new, 
 complete, and uniform edition of all the celebrated works written by the popular American His- 
 torian and Novelist, George Lippard. Every Family and every Library in this country, should 
 have in it a set of this new edition of his works. The following is a complete list of 
 
 GEORGE LIPPARD'S WORKS. 
 
 THE LEGEN'DS OE THE AMEEICAN REVOLIITIOST, 1776 ; oe, WASHINGTON 
 AND HIS GENERALS. By George Lippard. With a steel Engraving of the " Battle of 
 Germantown," at "Chew's House." Complete in one large octavo volume, price $1.50 in 
 paper cover, or bound in morocco cloth, price $2.00. 
 
 THE QUAKER CITY; or, THE MONKS OF MONK HALL. A Eomakcb of 
 Philadelphia Life, Mysteet, and Crime. By George Lippard. With Illustrations, 
 ;and the Author's Portrait and Autograph. Complete in one large octavo volume, price $1.50 
 in paper cover, or bound in morocco cloth, price $2.00. 
 
 PAUL AEDENHEIM, THE MONK OP WISSAHIKON. A Romance of the 
 American Rbvolittion, 1776. By George Lippard. Witli a Portrait of " The Monk of 
 Wissahikon," and " The Devil's Pool." Complete in one large octavo volume, price $1.50 in 
 paper cover, or bound in morocco cloth, price $2.00. 
 
 BLANCHE OF BRAND YWINE ; or, SEPTEMBER THE ELEVENTH, 1777. By 
 George Lippard. A Romance of the Revolution, as well as of the Poetry, Legends, and 
 History of the Battle of Brandywine. Complete in one large octavo volume, price $1.50 in 
 paper cover, or bound in morocco cloth, price $2.00. 
 
 THE MYSTERIES OF FLORENCE ; oe, THE CRIMES AND MYSTERIES OF 
 THE HOUSE OF ALBARONE. By George Lippard. Complete in one large octavo 
 volume, price $1.00 in paper cover, or bound in morocco cloth, price $2.00. 
 
 WASHINGTON AND HIS MEN. Being the " Second Series " of the "Legends 
 of the American Revolution, 1776." By George Lippard. With Illustrations. Com- 
 plete in one large octavo volume, paper cover, price 75 cents. 
 
 THE MEMOIRS OF A PREACHER; or, THE MYSTERIES OF THE PULPIT. 
 By George Lippard. With Illustrations. One large octavo volume, paper cover, price 75 cents. 
 
 THE EMPIRE CITY ; oe, NEW YORK BY NIGHT AND DAY. Its Aristocracy 
 and its Dollars. By George Lippard. One large octavo volume, paper cover, price 75 cents. 
 
 THE NAZARENE; oe, THE LAST OF THE WASHINGTONS. By George 
 Lippard. A Revelation of Philadelphia, New York, and Washington. Complete in one 
 large octavo volume, paper cover, price 75 cents. 
 
 THE ENTRANCED ; or, THE WANDERER OF EIGHTEEN CENTURIES. Con- 
 taining also, Jesus and the Poor, the Heart Broken, etc. By George Lippard. Price 50 cents. 
 
 THE LEGENDS OF MEXICO. By George Lippard. Comprising Legends and Histor- 
 ical Pictures of the Camp in the Wilderness ; The Sisters of Monterey ; The Dead Woman 
 of Palo Alto, etc. Complete in one large octavo volume, paper cover, price 50 cents. 
 
 THE BANK DIRECTOR'S SON. A Revelation of Life in a Great City. By George 
 Lippard. Complete in one large octavo volume, paper cover, price 25 cents. . 
 
 1^ Above Books are for sale by all Booksellers, or copies of either one or more of the above 
 books, or a complete set of them, will be sent at once, to any one, to any place, postage pre-paid, 
 or free of freight, on remitting price of ones wanted, to the Publishers, 
 
 T. B. PETEESON & BEOTHEES, 
 
 306 Chestnut Street, Philadelphia, Pa. 
 
^rolnguf. 
 
 LEGEND FIRST. 
 
 THE LAST OF THE WASHINGTONS. 
 
 "I wag bom of a noble ancestry," said a great man 
 who had risen from the kennel where Poverty hides its 
 hopeless faco — "True, niy parents were poor, but 
 three hundred years ago, the blood which flows in my 
 veins, coursed in the veins of Lords, Archbishops, 
 Counts, Dukes and Kings." 
 
 Then another Great Man, who had listened to this 
 glorious boast made reply : 
 
 "I also come of a noble lineage," he said, "My 
 parents it is true vrere rich, but three hundred years 
 ago, the blood which flows in my veins, coursed in the 
 veins — not of Count, Archbishop and King — but of 
 the Hewer and Digger, of the Serf and the Worker, 
 whose labors clothed the Lord, and gave bread to the 
 King." 
 
 And the first great man laughed at the boast of the 
 second. There was great reason for this laughter. 
 Who would not sooner be descended from a King 
 although a robber and assassin, than from a ragged 
 Worker, who can boast no wealth save the heritage of 
 want and hunger 1 For a King, although his hands are 
 red with the blood of the innocent, and his fine apparel 
 purchased with the misery of countless hearts, is yet a 
 King; the head and fountain of all nobility. And a 
 Serf, although his hands are unstained with blood, and 
 his hard crust unpolluted by a single victim's tears, is 
 still a Serf; the foundation stone of the world, on 
 which Society is built; a very useful thing, but hidden 
 in the darkness, by the great edifice of Wealth and 
 Power. 
 
 Lot us illustrate this question by » Legend of a far 
 distant age. Let us trace the Ancestry of a single 
 Great Man — whom we select from the crowd of 
 illustrious names — back to its very fountain, in this 
 dim Heraldry of the Past. 
 
 It has often come to me, clothed with strange and 
 peculiar details, this Legend of a long past ago. 
 
 — The atmosphere of a luxurious chamber wa» 
 burdened with sighs and prayers. 
 
 It was a gorgeous apartment in the castle of a noble 
 race; no display of sumptuous grandeur was lacking 
 there, the walls were concealed by hangings of puri)!e 
 and gold, the dome-like ceiling was supported by 
 marble columns. It was full of light and glitter, rich 
 with fine linen and gold, and yet Death was there. 
 
 He came not to strike the beautiful and the young ; 
 no full bosom of a trembling woman was there, to 
 grow chill and dead at his kiss. His hand was 
 extended to palsy an aged head, whose wrinkled fore- 
 head -— wet with moisture — displayed the white hairs, 
 venerable with the snows of eighty years. 
 
 An old man was dying there. 
 
 Not sinking feebly into the wave of Death, his 
 senses wrapped in the fancies of delirium, nor yet with 
 his chilled lips moving with one impatient moan. 
 
 But sitting erect on his death-couch, the silken 
 coverlet thrown aside from his wasted chest, his hands 
 clasped, and his face, with the hair and beard, like 
 drifted snow, turned to the light. Beneath his thick 
 eyebrows, also snow-white, his grey eyes shone with 
 an unfaltering glance. 
 
 His gaze was centred on ttie light, and as the death- 
 dew began to glisten on his forehead, and the blueish 
 tint of the grave began to gather over the nails of his 
 long white fingers, the old man, supported by silken 
 pillows, never for one moment turned his eyes away. 
 
 At the foot of the couch stood an altar on which the 
 waxen candles burned with steady lustre. Their clear 
 light shone upon the Image of the Saviour, sculptured 
 in ivory, with his limbs nailed to the Cross, and a calm 
 Divinity of Despair writhing over his Divine face. 
 
 ' And at the foot of the bed beside the altar, was the 
 armor and sword of the dying man. He was the last 
 of his race. The sword was very bright; the armor 
 shone like a mirror. He had worn it in the days of 
 
 (3) 
 
his young manhood — it had encased many a noble 
 form of his race before he was born — that sword had 
 flashed in the holy war of the crusade, and covered 
 itself with the blood of Civil War. 
 
 In his last moments, the old man, dying without an 
 heir, sternly conscious that the fatal hour of his house 
 was at hand — that the bright and bloody career of his 
 race was about to end forever in his death — this brave 
 old man, venerable with the trials of eighty years, gazed 
 steadily upon the armor and the sword. Sometimes 
 his glance wandered for a moment to the Divine Face, 
 but as suddenly returned to the warrior array, which 
 was piled up at the foot of the bed. 
 
 The Priest, a hard, stern man with shaven crown 
 and sombre apparel, colorless hands folded on' his 
 breast, and a dead vacant eye, glaring from compressed 
 brows, stood near the bed, with the vessels of the Last 
 Sacrament, arranged on the table by his side. But the 
 old man did not heed him, nor turn his eyes for a 
 moment to a pale faced woman who stood near the 
 priest, and fixed her eyes upon her father's dying face, 
 and wept without ceasing. 
 
 It was his widowed daughter — his only child. Nay, 
 there was another child, a younger daughter, but no 
 one might speak her name, in this death-room, or the 
 old man would couple that name with his dying curse. 
 
 And beyond the altar, stand the servitors of his 
 house, watching with dumb agony the last struggle of 
 the dying Lord. Here are the soldiers who fought with 
 him, in the days of old, and here the retainers who 
 dwell on his broad lands, as their fathers have dwelt for 
 ages past. 
 
 The old man's lips moved — 
 
 " He prays !" cried the widowed daughter, in an ac- 
 cent of joy, as her wasted face was bathed in tears. 
 "He may relent — " 
 
 "Never — " cried the Priest, with a scowl — "The 
 old man is conscious that the honour of his house dies 
 with him. His son fell in battle — you, Lady, are 
 widowed — childless. As for Alice — " 
 
 " My sister — " 
 
 More gloomily scowled the Priest — 
 
 "Do not breathe her name. Let the old man, even 
 your father, Lord Ralph of Wyttonhurst, die in peace. 
 Or wouldst thou have him go to the presence of his 
 God with a curse upon his soul 1" 
 
 While the Priest and the woman by his side con- 
 versed in whispers, a dead awe had fallen upon all the 
 other faces, which were clustered near the light, gazing 
 
 upon the shrunken form and white-bearded face of the 
 dying £ord. 
 
 For the first time in an hour he spoke — 
 
 " Sword that my fathers bore to battle, you will rest 
 upon my bosom when I am dust. There will be no 
 hand to wield you when I am dead. Bury me — " he 
 said, without once turning his eyes — "with my ar- 
 mour on, and my sword by my side. Let the banner 
 of Wyttonhurst be taken from the hall, and wrap it 
 about my coffin, so that all the world may know that 
 the House of my Fathers is dead." 
 
 "Father — " said a low pleading voice, and the old 
 man felt a warm hand upon his chilled fingers. 
 
 " It is Mary — " he muttered, without turning his 
 gaze — "A true daughter of our race. She will soon 
 follow her father to the charnel. In all the world there 
 will not be left a human thing with a drop of our blood 
 in their veins." 
 
 And as a single tear rolled down his wasted cheek, 
 he surrendered his thin hand — already da np with 
 death — to the clasp of his faithful child. Her soft 
 golden hair was already touched with grey; her cheeks 
 had been robbed of their warm hues by the hard and 
 bitter experience of life, and yet as she bent her face 
 near to the stern visage of her father, not a heart in the 
 dreary chamber but was touched by the sight. 
 
 " Faithful," murmured the old Lord — " True lo the 
 last.'* 
 
 Even the leaden visage of the Priest relented, and 
 something like humanity lighted his dead eye-balls. 
 
 "But Father — " and shuddering as she spoke, the 
 widowed daughter enfolded him in her arms, and pres- 
 sed her lips to his clammy face — " By the memory of 
 that Saviour who smiles upon you now, I beseech you 
 forgive your wandering child — forgive — your lost 
 Alice ! Do not, 0, as the dread Hereafter already 
 rushes upon your fading sight, do not curse your own 
 flesh and blood." 
 
 Without a word, the old man raised his death- 
 stricken arm, and gathering his failing strength for the 
 effort, thrust her arms from his neck, her face from his 
 cheek. His brow glowed with a stem, unforgiving 
 look ; the lines of his face grow suddenly rigid, as with 
 the outward indications of an unrelenting Will. 
 
 "Forgive her?" the cold tone of the Priest fell like 
 ice upon the daughter's heart — "Did she not, child ap 
 she was of the old man's heart, betrothed to a Lord of 
 noble lineage, forsake her father, her betrothed husband 
 — leave these very walls — to share the fate of a 
 
THE LAST OF THE WASHINGTONS. 
 
 " Low born peasant knave, who could not call one 
 rood of ground his own." , 
 
 " I know it — " the daughter exclaimed, as she con- 
 fronted the Priest. " Yet still she is of our own blood. 
 She is my sister. She is Alice of Wjttonhurst" 
 
 A murmur pervaded the apartment, and the eyes of 
 the spectators was fixed upon the brave Woman, who 
 true to the holiest instincts of her nature, dared even 
 the anger of her dying father, in the attempt to wring 
 from his chilled lips only one word of blessing, one 
 accent of forgiveness. 
 
 But no accent of forgiveness came — stern, cold and 
 unrelenting he gazed upon the armour, the sword and 
 the image of the Dying Kedeemer, murmuring with his 
 husky voice, a curse upon Alice, his Lost Daughter. 
 
 And when the Priest was encircled by white-robed 
 children with silver censers swinging in their little 
 hands — when the words of the Last Sacrament 
 trembled from his lips, rolling in full deep melody 
 through the dreary chamber — while the daughter knelt 
 by the bed, and the servitors were bowing their heads 
 against the floor — still, with a stern resolve upon his 
 forehead, the old Lord, sat erect on his couch, coupUng 
 with a' curse the name of the younger daughter, Alice. 
 
 Shall we leave this scene, where Death is clad in 
 grandeur and vengeance 1 In order to comprehend it 
 more fully, shall we behold death, rudely clad in misery 
 md chains } 
 
 In a cell, sunken far below the surface of the earth — 
 with a huge mass of walls and chambers between its 
 arched ceiling and the light of the stars -an Executioner, 
 torch in hand, came to look upon his victim. 
 
 He stood in the centre of the damp cell, his paleface, 
 with cold eyeballs and thin severe lips, standing out 
 from his black cowl. For the Executioner did not 
 appear in the form of a Headsman with a sharp axe in 
 his brawny hand, but as a Monk with the cold sneer on 
 his withered lips, a calm scorn in his impassible eyes. 
 
 Aboye him frowned the arch of the cell — around 
 him, brooded the shadows, through whose darkness the 
 moisture on the thick walls, shone with a pale dreary 
 lustre. 
 
 At his feet, crouching on a rude seat — a solid block 
 of stone — was his Prisoner or victim, chained by the 
 wrists and ancles to the floor. 
 
 The light of the torch disclosed h'm, as bowing his 
 head between his hands — they rested on hU knees — 
 
 he seemed to be lost to all consciousness in a miserable 
 repose. 
 
 " One year of night and silence, will wither the 
 bravest form! A year ago, across the threshold he 
 stepped, with a bold and agile stride, and as the door 
 grated behind him, a smile flashed over his features. 
 Look upon him, now — " 
 
 Nearer to the couching form, the spectator held his 
 light. But the Prisoner did not move. 
 
 It was pitiable to see him, as he sat upon the hard 
 stone, irons upon his wrist, and chains extending from 
 his ancles to the massy ring in the centre of the floor. 
 
 It was but the wreck of a man. A muscular form, 
 broad in the chest, majestic in the stride, wrecked sud- 
 denly into a living skeleton, whose fleshless arms and 
 gaunt outlines, the rays which fluttered about him could 
 not altogether hide. Such was the Prisoner of that cell, 
 whose Night was Eternal. 
 
 Once his hands wandered amid tangled masses of dark 
 hair, streaked with grey. It was a large head, but the 
 pale face could not be seen, for the chained hands 
 veiled it from the light. 
 
 " For one year he has not beheld the light of day. A 
 morsel of coarse bread, a cup of water, thrust through the 
 door of his cell — such has been his food for a year. He 
 cannot last much longer — " 
 
 The Prisoner moved ; his chains aroused the echoes 
 of the cell. A miserably wasted face, with eyes hollow 
 and wild, glowed in the light. There was a broad 
 forehead, marked eyebrows, but the eyes were sunken 
 in their sockets, the cheeks hollow, the lips — parting in 
 an idiotic smile — chill and colorless. 
 
 He turned his face from the light, as though its glare 
 smote his eyeballs with deadly anguish — and then 
 shading his sight with his chained hands looked vacantly 
 into the impassible face of his Gaoler. 
 
 Do you feel that picture, in all itsdetails 1 Far above 
 this solitary wretch, arise the walls, the corridors, the 
 huge roof and slender spires of this immense edifice ; 
 and far above, the light of the midnight stars shines upon 
 the Cross, until it glitters like a brighter star above the 
 venerable pile. 
 
 Far above, there are free fields, and wide forests, the 
 fields white with snow and the forests desolate with 
 winter — yet still they are free. 
 
 And here, in the cell, which resembles a coffin, with 
 its low ceiling and narrow walls, a living man withers 
 incli bv inch to death and fccls that his voice is drowned 
 
PROLOGUE. 
 
 by the impenetrable stone that shut him in. FeeU tha 
 this cell is not merely the Prison of his Body but the 
 Coffin of his iSouI. He is shut off, forever, from society 
 and the sympathies of mankind. When he dies no 
 tear will moisten his cold face. Not one pitying eye 
 will look into the recesses of his accursed grave. 
 
 Ah, the reality of death Uke this, would chill the 
 heart of the bravest man that ever dared death on the 
 battle-field. 
 
 — The wasted man looked up, and murmured two 
 syllaliles, that may seem to us, but feeble and 
 incoherent — 
 
 " Wife — child — " he said, and bowed himself to 
 his chains again. 
 
 Then the cold sneer of his Executioner, was length- 
 ened out in measured words : 
 
 " A serf — a hewer of wood and drawer of water — 
 you dared to love the lady of a noble house. A man of 
 no name, bom to hew and dig, as your fathers before 
 you were born, you dared to open the Book of God, 
 and read its pages for yourself. But the strong arm of 
 the Church, came suddenly down upon your head. The 
 wife whom you had dared to take to yourself was 
 doomed to the silence and secrecy of a convent — and 
 you — miserable man ! Do you remember your 
 sentence — as it fell from the lips of your Judges, only 
 a year ago " 
 
 The Prisoner moved not, but a i;roan was heard. 
 
 " Eternal seclusion from the face of man." This was 
 the word pronounced upon your head by the Church 
 and the Law. * Only once a year, you shall be per- 
 mitted to see the face of a human being. The hand 
 of mercy will be extended to you, in case you renounce 
 at once your wife, and the heresy which you have 
 wrung from the pages of the Book of God.' I am here 
 to offer that mercy — say that the lady Alice is no longer 
 wife of yours — say that you believe no longer your 
 damnable heresy but in our Church — and you shall 
 live!" 
 
 It seemed as if the sneering tone and contemptuously 
 offered mercy of the Monk, had roused the wasted man 
 into a new life. 
 
 " You come too late," he sadly said, raising his 
 hollow eyes — "That which you call my heresy, has 
 been my only stay, my unfaltering hope, through the 
 endless Night of this living grave. Shall I renounce it 
 now, and lie basely, as I am about to go into the presence 
 ofmyGodl Alice — renounceher? Wherefore? We 
 will soon be joined again, where there are neither locks 
 
 nor bolts ; not much of Church or King ; nothing but 
 children whose Father is the living God." 
 
 Not very boldly did he speak these words. Faltering 
 in every accent, his eyes vacant and dreary all the while, 
 his hands trembling in their chains, he spoke with great 
 difficulty, pausing for breath between every word. 
 
 " You come too late," and he bowed his head without 
 a groan. 
 
 For a long while he was silent, while the Monk 
 holding the torch above his wasted form, looked upon 
 him with the same impassible scurn. At last, startled 
 by the breathless stillness of his prisoner, he went to 
 him, and shook him by the shoulder, but the Prisoner 
 moved not, nor uttered one moan. The Monk rudely 
 raised his head from his fettered hands, and saw at once 
 that he was Dead. 
 
 He too was the last of his race, the last Peasant of 
 his name. Or had he yet a child 1 No wife — no 
 child 1 
 
 Yet even as the light flashed vividly upon his wasted 
 form, and tinted with a red glare his motionless eye- ' 
 balls, there was something upon his face, which sjwke 
 of Peace. A smile hung around his chilled lips ; there 
 was no sorrow in the solitary tear which bathed his 
 cheek. 
 
 The sneer passed from the spectator's face. He could 
 not but look with something like pity upon the dead 
 man. As he suffered the head to fall once more upon 
 the hands, a bright object escaped from the rags which 
 bound the shrunken chest, and fluttered to the floor. 
 
 The Monk raising it, beheld a dingy piece of parch- 
 ment, on which, in the rude yet nervous old English 
 character, certain strange words were written : 
 
 "The spirit of Jehotah is vros me to pbeacb 
 oooD TiDiires to the Pooh." 
 
 These words (whose orthoepy we have modernized) 
 were all that the strip of parchment contained, but the 
 Monk pondered upon them for a long time, wondering 
 from what strange book they could have been taken. 
 
 And ere many hours were passed, a slab was lifted 
 from the prison floor, and the unshrouded corse of the 
 prisoner, hurled into the cavity which yawned beneath. 
 
 He was forgotten — lost in the great abyss of the past. 
 And. yet perchance, his blood did not altogether die, his 
 spirit altogether fade, as they placed the stone upon hie 
 breast, and lefl him to his long repose. 
 
 Turn we once more, to the gorgeous chamber of the 
 ancient baronial hall The last sacrament has been 
 
THE LAST OF THE WASHINGTONS. 
 
 said — the breath of incense yet lingers in the air. 
 Around the room still gather the servitors of the noble 
 nouse; the Priest kneels by the bed; the widowed 
 daughter above is absent from the scene. 
 
 The old man in the same position in which we last 
 beheld him, crosses his hands upon his breast, and 
 gazes upon the woman, the sword, and Holy Image. 
 There is a glassier light in his eye, the moisture starts 
 more brightly from his forehead ; his hands are blue with 
 the death-chill. 
 
 The same ray which warms his face, glistens upon 
 the woman, and the rich purple hangings of the death- 
 chamber. 
 
 — Gaze upon this scene, compare it with the miser- 
 able death, which but a moment since took place, far 
 down in the dreary atmosphere of the coffin-like cell. 
 
 It is indeed a widely different scene. Here death is 
 invested with the splendors of rank, and grows less 
 terriole under the weight of purple and gold — there, a 
 ghostly thing of rags and famine appears in ^urid torch- 
 light; and a face withered, not by age nor disease, but 
 by the pang of persecution, rests between hands which 
 aie heavy with a felon's chains. 
 
 It was near the daybreak hour, when the dawn began 
 to steal through the curtained windows, that a woman's 
 form stole through the silent watchers and advanced to 
 the bedside. 
 
 "Father," she whispered, and placed his chilled 
 fingers upon a little hand — not her own — which did . 
 not shrink from the old man's dying grasp. 
 
 He turned and gazed upon his widowed daughter. 
 
 "I am dying,'' he faltered; "Alice — " he mur- 
 mured the name of his lost daughter, but seemed to 
 hesitate as the curse hung on his lips. 
 
 "She died tonight," said the faithful Daughter — 
 "Died in the Convent, amid the Nuns, who could not 
 hut weep as they saw her glide so pale and broken- 
 hearted into the arms of death. She died but — " 
 
 Once more she placed this little hand within his own. 
 
 " Behold her child ! " 
 
 It was a brown-haired boy, not more than four years 
 old, who looked with a vague wonderment into the old 
 man's face. He was coarsely attired, like the child of 
 a peasant, but his eyes were round and bright, his 
 warm cheek full of health. 
 
 The stern Baron looked upon that wondering child, 
 as though he would have killed him with the last 
 glance of his glassy eyes. But the boy clung to his 
 withered breast, crept tremblingly up the aide of the 
 
 high couch, and wound his little arms around the 
 gaunt limbs of the dying man. 
 
 "Have you a Mother, child — a Father — " gasped 
 the Baron, as his senses began to wander in the mists 
 of death. 
 
 The Boy looked upon him with a vacant stare. 
 " Father" — " Mother" — these words sounded as an un- 
 known lan.ruage in his ears. They had torn hi", 
 when a babe, from his mother's breast. He had never 
 seen his Father's face. Therefore with his large black 
 eyes dilating with a stare of child-like wonder, he gazed 
 vacantly into the death-stricken face of the great Baron. 
 
 " Had I but a child like thee — " the old man gasped 
 — " To wear my sword, and bear my banner forth to 
 battle ! Curses, curses upon the child who fled from 
 my roof with a low-born peasant ! Had she but wedded 
 one of her own rank, her child might have taken the 
 name of our House. A peasant's wife ! Thy name, 
 my pretty one — it is pleasant to feel thy kindly eyes 
 upon me — thy name ! " 
 
 The Boy in his clear silvery voice uttered a name — 
 
 " The peasant's child ! " cried the old man with an 
 oath that came with his last breath — "The child of 
 Alice and her peasant husband ! " with the last impulse 
 of his strength — while death came coldly over every 
 sense — he dashed the boy aside, and fell back stiff and 
 dead. 
 
 A wonderful thing it was to see that little child 
 crouching on the silken coverlet, his rosy cheeks and 
 great dark eyes, contrasting so strongly with the dead 
 eyeballs and fallen jaw of the great Lord. 
 
 A peasant's child, pressing the downy pillow of a 
 dead Lord ! Even in death the old man's face seemed 
 to sneer at the thought, and the frightened boy crept 
 slowly fi'om his side. 
 
 And yet in distant ages — from this drear night of 
 the fifteenth century, when we stand beside the death- 
 bed of a Lord — the name of that Peasant Boy, may be 
 a nobler name, than all the Wyttonhursts of the English 
 Island. Aye nobler than Lancaster or Plantagenet, 
 nobler than all the names inscribed on the blood red 
 scroll of British Heraldry — 
 
 For the child, trembling on the death-couch of the 
 Baron, the Son of the Peasant, who died alone in his 
 dungeon coffin, was named Lawbehce Washino- 
 TOJr. 
 
 Could that dying Baron have looked into the futu e, 
 through the mists of three centuries, he might hatve 
 seen a descendant of that peasant child, in the per- 
 son of — GEonaE Washington 
 
(9) 
 
LEGEND SECOND. 
 
 THE MOTHER'S PRAYEK. 
 
 A mother on her knees, stretching forth her 
 hands over her slumbering child, while through 
 the gloom of twilight her soul, shining from her 
 uplifted eyes, ascends in voiceless communion 
 with God — 
 
 Was it in a Palace, where a Royal Babe, 
 wrapped in purple, clutches a sceptre for a 
 plaything, and only uncloses its eyes to behold 
 scenes of luxury — trains of liveried and titled 
 lacquies — magnificent halls, looking out from 
 their lofty windows upon gardens peopled with 
 armed vassals ? 
 
 Was it a royal mother, like that doll of legiti- 
 macy, Maria Louisa, whose veins were stag- 
 nant with the royal blood of ten centuries, 
 whose silken vestment never once moved to 
 one throb of womanly feeling, warm from a 
 Mother's heart? 
 
 Was it an imperial babe that met her gaze ; 
 a tiny thing, fated to be King of Rome to-day, 
 and to-morrow but the child of an Imperial 
 Outcast, chained by British hands to an isola- 
 ted rock in the centre of an ocean ? 
 
 No. The Mother was neither Queen nor 
 Empress ; she knelt at the evening hour, in a 
 chamber of her home, where the last ray of 
 sunset, trembling through an opened window, 
 bathed with the same flush her face and the 
 face of the sleeping babe. 
 
 And the breeze that came over fields, just 
 blooming into verdure, was imbued with the 
 delicious perfume of early summer. And the 
 Bun which, setting, flung its beams upon the 
 faces of Mother and Child, was sinking in a 
 blue vault, undimmed by a single cloud. And 
 the Home was a plain wooden building, one 
 story in lieight, standing amid trees and gar- 
 dens near the water-side. 
 
 One hundred and sixteen years have passed 
 gince that hour, and yet the scene is fresh be- 
 fore us still. Let us invoke the memory of 
 
 the Past, and paint that scene upon the h^art 
 of every American Mother. 
 
 In a room, whose old fashioned furniture — 
 pictures on the wainscot walls, a couch in one 
 corner, floor white as snow, and table on which 
 was placed a Bible — was shadowed by the 
 gloom of twilight, the Mother knelt, her face 
 toward the setting sun. 
 
 Through an open casement — fringed with 
 a young vine, amid whose tender leaves, deli- 
 cate flowers, white and beautiful as snow-drops 
 in the moonlight — came the breeze and sunshine, 
 filling the dim room with gleams of light and 
 odours of leaves and flowers. 
 
 The Mother was kneeling in the recess of 
 that window — a pale woman, whose matronly 
 forehead was radiant with the divine tender- 
 ness of a Mother's love, whose eyes uplifted 
 
 — shining in their tears — were instinct with 
 a Mother's Soul. Her cheeks glowed with a 
 flush of crimson, as she stretched her thin 
 white hands above the child. 
 
 And the child, resting on a pillow, its tiny 
 hands clasped and its eyes sealed in slumber 
 
 — it was altogether a fragile thing, a frail em- 
 bodiment of an immortal soul. As the sunshine 
 stole in glimpses over its face, and turned the 
 marble whiteness of its litde hands to co.al, a 
 solitary flower fell from the vine above, and 
 trembled down upon it, and rested like a Bles- 
 
 ing upon its breast. 
 
 Altogether, this humble apartment, furnished 
 in the plain style of the olden time — the open 
 casement fringed with vines — the Mother 
 kneeling, and the Babe slumbering with the 
 white flower on its bosom — presented a scene 
 not at all worthy of the sage Historian who 
 can only picture intrigue and bloodshed, but 
 rather the simple chronicler, whose pencil and 
 whose heart lingers ever amid the holy qui- 
 etude of — Home. 
 
 (11) 
 
12 
 
 WASHINGTON AVD HIS MEN. 
 
 And as the breeze lifted the brown hair of 
 the Mother, she stretched forth her hands, and 
 her Soul went up to God in a voiceless Prayer. 
 Oh, there was a world of eloquence in that 
 pale face, glowing in sunset, and impassioned 
 with a Mother's Love! 
 
 Shall we translate that Prayer into the lame 
 words of sound ? " Father in Heaven ! Be- 
 hold this Babe that slumbers now, with an 
 Immortal Soul beating silently in its bosom. 
 Shall this child, now dawning into life, ripen 
 into virtuous manhood, and sleep after the toil 
 of this world in a blessed grave ? Or, shall he 
 live (o curse his race, and after a life of infamj'^ 
 moulder to dust, with no tear to sanctify his 
 ashes ?" 
 
 It was this Thought that gave such divine 
 eloquence to the Mother's face — The Future 
 of her Child. 
 
 And as her voiceless prayer went up to God, 
 it seemed to her that the sunset sky, and the 
 river flowing among fields of corn, passed sud- 
 denly away. All became dark night around 
 her. And through the dead stillness of night, 
 came a voice which spoke not so much to her 
 ear as to her soul — "Mother! Behold the 
 Futurelife of this child, which now slumbers 
 beneath your gaze." 
 
 ! beautiful and wondrous was the Vision, 
 or the Dream, or the Reality, which then came 
 gliding upon the Mother's eyes. 
 
 It was a prospect of green hills, undulating 
 beside tumultuous waters, and centred in the 
 bosom of a silent wilderness. And on a rock 
 beside the waters, which, plunging over a crag, 
 howled in the abyss far beneath, stood a youth 
 of eighteen years, clad in back-woodsman's 
 garb, staff in hand and pilgrim's wallet on his 
 back. His face turned to the setting sun, 
 glowed at once with the beauty of youth and 
 the silent majesty of precocious Thought. 
 
 The Mother's eyes lingered long upon this 
 lonely boy, standing over the abyss, in the 
 drear wilderness. 
 
 She clasped her hands — she asked the 
 meaning of this scene. " It is in the wilder- 
 ness that the heart of the boy will ripen into 
 virtuous manhood. For as he walks the wil- 
 derness — alone with God and his own Soul 
 — God's voice will speak to him, with the 
 memory of a Mother's Prayers." 
 
 The scene was gone — gone the hills, the 
 
 abyss, the boy of eighteen, standing on ihe 
 isolated rook. 
 
 The scene which the Mother beheld made 
 the blood run cold in her veins. It was a Bat- 
 tle among wild hills — clouds of lurid smoke, 
 rolling over heaps of dead, whose glassy eyes 
 shone mockingly in the red light. Red men 
 were there, murdering in stealth, from the 
 shelter of a log or tree — and there legions of 
 armed men, in scarlet array, marched in exact 
 order to their certain Death. 
 
 But there was one form, a youth of twenty- 
 three, mounted on a dark bay horse, who won 
 at once the Mother's eye. 
 
 Where the fight was most terrible, where 
 the yell of dying man mingled most fiercely 
 with the red man's war-whoop — he was there. 
 Ever the same, a gallant youth of magnificent 
 form, and grey eyes, dilating with a hero's soul. 
 
 And the dying raised their pale faces to be- 
 hold him as he went by, and their lips grew 
 cold forever in the act of blessing his name. 
 
 How the Mother's heart expanded in her 
 bosom, as she beheld this scene ! 
 
 But ah, sad and fearful change ! His horse 
 is wounded — he totters, he reels, and buries 
 his rider under his wriihing body. There is a 
 terrible pause. At last, covered with blood, 
 the fallen Rider springs to his feet and beholds 
 the foe who wounded his horse, and aimed iha 
 bullet at his own heart — he beholds the foe 
 on his knees, beaten down by a friendly sword. 
 
 Does he slay the fallen foe ? The Mother 
 holds her breath as she watches the issue of 
 the scene. Ah, he raises his hand, the youth 
 of twenty-three, but it is to bear his enemy 
 aside from the roar of the conflict, and rest his 
 shattered limbs by the river side, under the 
 shade of a great oak tree. 
 
 And then, once more through the silence 
 comes a voice — " Behold your son in Battle ! 
 Strong in the Right, he prepares himself on 
 the dreary hill-side for a wider field, a nobler 
 cause. He cannot strike the fallen, nor pursue 
 the suppliant he, for the Memory of his Mo- 
 ther's Prayer is with him now." 
 
 And thus, from scene to scene, the Mother 
 beheld spreading before her, the great drama of 
 her Child's Future. The scenes that she saw, 
 the battles she beheld, would crowd a volume 
 
 There was a dark river, burdened wiih ice 
 and heaving sullenly in the grey winter's dawn. 
 
THE MOTHER S PRAYER. 
 
 13 
 
 Her Son, the Babe which sleeps before her, 
 grown to mature manhood, was upon that river, 
 guiding the wreck of an army to the opposite 
 shore, and speaking to half-naked and starving 
 men the bold thoughts of Freedom. 
 
 There was a scene of cheerless hills, crowded 
 by miserable huts, whose rugged timbers rose 
 gloomily from amid a wide waste of snow. 
 Starvation was there, and Plague and Cold, 
 doing their three-fold work upon a band of 
 heroes. But there, upon his knees, in his 
 warrior uniform, praying to God for his men — 
 offering up his life as a sacrifice for his country 
 — there was the leader of this band, whose 
 great soul shone in his form and features, and 
 in his more than kingly presence. 
 
 The Mother knew that Face ! It was her 
 son ; and the voice which she had heard before 
 she heard again — " Your son, become the 
 Leader of a People, defies Hunger, Plague, 
 and Cold, and holds the serenity of his soul 
 against foes abroad and traitors at home, for 
 God's voice speaks to him again in the Memory 
 of his Mother's Prayer." 
 
 At last there came a scene which filled every 
 avenue of her heart with joy — joy too deep 
 for words or tears. 
 
 A man of more than regal presence stood 
 among a countless multitude of freemen, and 
 while their shouts went up to Heaven, he gave 
 back into their hands the sword which had 
 achieved their Freedom. 
 
 And in that moment, his large grey eyes 
 flashing as they gazed upon the countless mul- 
 titude, brightened with a kindlier, holier lustre, 
 as the heart of the Great Man was filled with 
 the Memory of his Mother's Face — of that 
 gentle voice which had whispered Religion in 
 his ear — of that Soul which had infused its 
 holy nature into his own breast 
 
 These scenes the Mother beheld with every 
 varied emotion. But the last scene fired every 
 pulse with a calm rapture, and shed the baptism 
 of unutterable peace upon her soul. 
 
 But once more that voice, which came 
 through darkness and silence, spoke to her — 
 
 " Mother ! TTiis will be the life of your 
 babe, in case you are true to your trust. 
 For God gives into every Mother's hands the 
 life, the Destiny of her child." 
 
 Then, after the voice was still, came a scene 
 at once dark and crushing. With chilled blood 
 
 and a heart slowly struggling under an over- 
 whelming Terror, the Mother beheld it — a 
 Dream composed of a succession of vivid pic- 
 tures. 
 
 First, a wild boy standing upon a vessel's 
 deck, amid the darkness of an ocean storm. 
 His defiant lip and blasphemous eye, his hand 
 uplifted in scorn at the lightning which circled 
 over him — twining among the clouds like a 
 fiery serpent over a pall — all attested a reck- 
 less and outcast soul. 
 
 No Mother's Prayer shed its blessing on his 
 corrugated brow— no memory of a Mother's 
 teachings came to bless the heart of the Out- 
 cast Boy. 
 
 And the Outcast Boy ripened into a Murderer 
 before the Mother's eyes — and the Murderer 
 became a Pirate — and at last the dread drama 
 terminated on a desert island, on whose bleak 
 shore a skeleton, washed by the waves from 
 its rude grave, glared whitely in the tropic sun. 
 
 And the skeleton — all that remained of the 
 Murderer and the Pirate — was her son, the 
 Babe which now slumbered beneath her out- 
 spread hands! 
 
 " There is no blessing upon the Skeleton, 
 for no Mother's Memory rmnes to blossom 
 in good deeds over the dead" 
 
 She heard the voice once more — 
 •■ And this, O Mother, will be the Future of 
 your child, deprived of a Mother'' s teachings 
 and a Mother's prayer." 
 
 With the last accent of that voice her vision 
 passed away. 
 
 The Babe was still there — slumbering in 
 the twilight hour — with its hands clasped and 
 the white flower upon its heart. 
 
 An image of Peace — a glimpse of Eden — 
 centred in the serenily of the summer twilight, 
 seemed that Child slumbering beneath its Mo- 
 ther's gaze. 
 
 Her mind s ill agitated by her Dream — 
 with its terrible picture of a child unblest by a 
 Mother's Prayer; and its divine picture of a 
 child hallowed by that Prayer — she turned 
 from the window, leaving the Babe in the 
 shadowy recess. 
 
 The ray of a candle trembled through the 
 gloom. 
 
 The candle stood upon a table, which, cov- 
 ered with a white cloth, resembled an altar. 
 
 Upon the cloth, beside the candle, appeared 
 
14 
 
 WASHINGTON AND HIS MEN. 
 
 a white urn, or vase, filled with clear cold 
 water. 
 
 And there stood a man of venerable presence, 
 a Minister of God, with the father of the babe 
 at his side. The wrinkled face, the white hair 
 of the Preacher, were in strong but not un- 
 pleasing contrast with the young manhood of 
 the Father. 
 
 Around were grouped a few friends — men 
 and women, whose faces appeared in the dim 
 light, and who had come to witness the Bap- 
 tism of the Child. 
 
 And the Mother bore the Babe from its rest- 
 mg place — it opened its eyes as she raised it, 
 and clutched the stray flawer with its tiny hand. 
 
 And she stood by the baptismal vase, while 
 the holy words were said, while the withered 
 
 hand of the Priest sprinkled the blessed drops 
 upon the white brow of that sinless babe, and 
 all the while it gazed wonderingly around, 
 clutching the stray flower in its little hand. 
 
 And that tiny hand should one day clutch a 
 Battle Blade, and carve a Nation's Freedom 
 with a Hero's Sword. 
 
 Holy were the words which fell from the 
 lips of the Preacher — holy the baptism which 
 he sprinkled upon the brow of unconscious 
 innocence — but the Mother, as she girdled the 
 Babe to her bosom and remembered her dream, 
 could not banish the thought — that the holiest 
 baptism which Earth could offer up to the eye 
 of God — holier than words, or forms, or 
 sprinkled water — was the Baptism of a 
 Mother's Prayer. 
 
LEGEND THIRD. 
 
 THE YOUTH OF WASHINGTON, 
 
 It is not the most difficult thing in the world 
 to write the history of a battle. The tramp of 
 legions, the crash of contending foemen, the 
 waving of banners — arms glittering here, and 
 the cold faces of the dead glowing yonder, in 
 the battle flash — these form a picture that 
 strikes the heart at once, and makes its mark 
 forever. 
 
 But who can write the history of a Soul ? 
 
 Who can tell how the germ, of heroism, the 
 idea of greatness first swells in the mind of the 
 Boy, and slowly ripens into full life ? 
 
 We have seen Washington the President. 
 We have known Washington the General. 
 Shall we look into the soul of Washington the 
 Boy ? Shall we behold the almost impercep- 
 tible gradations which marked the progress of 
 that soul into manhood? Shall we witness 
 the silent, gradual, ceaseless education of that 
 soul? 
 
 How was Washington educated ? Did he 
 lounge away five years of his life within the 
 walls of a college, occupied in removing the 
 shrouds from the mummies of Classic Litera- 
 ture, busy in familiarizing his mind with the 
 elahorate pollutions of Grecian mythology, or 
 in analyzing the hollow philosophies of the 
 academy and portico ? 
 
 No. His education was on a broader, vaster 
 scale. 
 
 At seventeen he leaves the common school, 
 where he had received the plain rudiments of 
 an English education, and with knapsack 
 strapped to his shoulders, surveyor's instru- 
 ments in his hand, he goes forth, a pilgrim 
 among the mountains. Where there is blue 
 sky, where the tumultuous river hews its way 
 through colossal cliffs, where the great peaks 
 of the AUeghanies rise like immense altars into 
 
 the heavens — such were the scenes in which 
 the soul of Washington was educated. 
 
 He went forth a wanderer mto tbs wilder- 
 ness. At night he stretched his limbs in the 
 depths of the forest, or rose lo looK upon the 
 stars, as they shone in upon the awful night 
 of the wilderness, or sat down with the red 
 men by their council fire, and learned from 
 this strange race the traditions of the lost 
 nations of America. 
 
 Three years of his life glide away while he 
 sojourns among the scenes of nature's grandeur. 
 Those three years form his character, and 
 shape his soul. Glimpses of the future come 
 upon him like those blushes of radiance in the 
 day-break sky, which announce the rising of 
 the sun. 
 
 Shall we learn the manner of his communion 
 with nature and with God ? 
 
 We know it is beneath the dignity of history 
 to look even for an instant into the heart. We 
 know that vague generalities, misty outlines, 
 compact and well-proportioned falsehoods, 
 sprinkled with a dash of what is called philo- 
 sophy — too often constitute the object and the 
 manner of history. 
 
 Shall we depart a little while from the re- 
 spectable regularities of history, which too 
 often resemble the regular tactics of Braddock 
 on his fatal field, and call tradition and legend 
 to our aid ? Tradition and legend, which, in 
 their vivid but irregular details, remind us 
 forcibly of the crude style of battle which 
 young Washington so fruitlessly commended to 
 the notice of the regular general, on the battle 
 day of Monongahela. 
 
 Learn, then, the manner of young Wash- 
 ington's communion with natur.e and with 
 God. (^5^ 
 
16 
 
 WASHINGTON AND HIS MEN. 
 
 But first learn and know by heart the scenes 
 in which his boyhood passed away. 
 
 Over a tumultuous torrent, high in the upper 
 air, there hangs a bridge of rock, fashioned by 
 the hand of Nature, with the peaks of granite 
 mountains for its horizon. Two hundred feet 
 above the foaming waves you behold this arch, 
 which in its very ruggedness, looks graceful 
 as a floating scarf. Over the waves, looking 
 through the arch, you catch a vision of colos- 
 sal cliffs, with a glimpse of smiling sky. Ad- 
 vance to the parapet of this bridge — cling to 
 the shrubs that grow there — look below! 
 Your heart grows sick — your brain reels. 
 
 Stand in the shadow of the arch, and look 
 above. How beautiful ! While the torrent 
 sparkles at your feet, yonder, in the very 
 Heaven, the Arch of Rock fills your eye, and 
 spans the abyss, with giant trees upon its 
 brow. 
 
 To the Natural Bridge, Washington, the 
 young pilgrim came. He stood by the waves 
 at sunset — he drank in the rugged sublimity 
 of the scene. And when the morning came, 
 with an unfaltering step, and hand that never 
 shook, not for an instant, with one pulse of 
 fear, he climbed the awful height — he wrote 
 his name upon the rock — he stood upon the 
 summit, beneath the tall pine, and saw the 
 march of day among the mountains. 
 
 Who shall picture his emotions in that 
 hour ? 
 
 As his unfaltering hand traced the name 
 upon the rock, did he dream of the day when 
 that name should be stamped upon the history 
 of his country, and written not in stone, but in 
 the throbs of living hearts ? 
 
 As he stood upon the arch, and saw the tor- 
 rent sparkle dimly far below, while the kiss 
 of light was glittering on the mountain tops, 
 did no vision of the battle field, no shadowy 
 presentiment of glory, gleam awfully before 
 his flashing eyes ? 
 
 Again ; another scene of Washington's 
 education. 
 
 There is a river which sparkles beautifully 
 among its leafy banks — glides on as smoothly 
 as the dream of sinless slumber ; but even as 
 you gaze upon its glassy waves, it rushes from 
 your sight. It glides over a bed of rocks, and 
 then througli a yawning abyss sinks with one 
 
 sullen plunge into the bosom of the earth. Oi- 
 one side you behold its smooth waters — at 
 your feet the abyss — and yonder, an undu- 
 lating meadow. Yes, where should be the 
 course of the river, you behold slopes of grass 
 and flowers. 
 
 It is simply called the Lost River. 
 
 It fills you with inexplicable emotions to see 
 this beautiful stream, now flashing in the sun- 
 light, now — ere you can count one — lost in 
 a dismal cavern, with flowers growing upon its 
 grave. 
 
 Here Washington, the young pilgrim, wan-" 
 dered oftentime, and gazed with a full heart 
 upon the mysterious river. 
 
 "Shall my life be like that river? Gliding 
 smoothly on — shining in eunlight, only to 
 plunge, without a moment's warning, into 
 night and eternity." 
 
 Did no thought like this cross the young 
 pilgrim's soul ? In that wondrous river he be- 
 held a symbol of a brave life, suddenly plunged 
 in darkness. Or, it may be, of a great heart, 
 hurled into obscurity, only to rise more beauti- 
 ful and strong, after the night was over and 
 the darkness gone. For after three miles of 
 darkness, the lost river comes sparkling into 
 light again, singing for very gladness, as it 
 rushes from the cavern into open air. 
 
 Amid scenes likeothese the youth of Wash- 
 ington was passed. He grew to manhood 
 amid the glorious images of unpolluted nature. 
 Now, pausing near the mountain top, he saw 
 the valleys of Virginia fade far away, in one 
 long smile of verdure and sunshine, with the 
 Potomac, like a silver thread, in the distance. 
 
 Now battling for life, amid hunger, snow, 
 and savage foes, he makes his bed in the hol- 
 low of the rock, or sets his destiny afloat amid 
 the waves and ice of a wintry river 
 
 There is one picture in the life of Washing- 
 ton, the Boy, which has ever impressed my 
 soul. 
 
 It is not so much that picture of young 
 Washington, seated at the feet of his widowed 
 mother, gazing into her pale face, drinking the 
 fathomless aflection of her mild eyes, and for 
 her sake renouncing the glittering prospect of 
 an ocean life, and laurels gathered from its 
 gory waves. 
 
 This picture, in its simplicity, is very beau- 
 

 o 
 o 
 
 a 
 
 > 
 
 
 
 
 
 t 
 
 (17) 
 
niT; TOtTTH OF WASHINGTON. 
 
 19 
 
 tiful. But it is another picture which enchains 
 me. Behold it. 
 
 By the side of a lonely stream, in the depth 
 of a green woodland, sits a boy of fourteen — 
 shut out from all the world, alone with his 
 heart — his finger laid upon an opened volume, 
 while his large grey eye gazes vacantly into 
 the deep waters. 
 
 And that volume is the old Family Bible, 
 marked with the name of his ancestor, John 
 Washington; and from its large letters look 
 forth the Prophets of Israel, and from its pages, 
 printed in antique style, the face of Jesus 
 smiles in upon the soul of the dreaming boy. 
 
 Washington the boy, alone with the old Bi- 
 ble which his ancestor, a wanderer and an ex- 
 ile, brought from the English shore — alone 
 with the propliets and the warriors of long dis- 
 tant ages — shut in from the world by the aw"- 
 ful forms of revelation — now wandering with 
 the Patriarchs under the shade of palms, 
 among the white flocks — now lingering by Sa- 
 maria's well, while the Divine voice melts in 
 accents of unutterable music upon the stillness 
 of noonday. 
 
 Let us for a few moments survey the various 
 EPOCHA of the youth of Washington. 
 
 At the age of ten years he is left an orphan ; 
 from the hour of his father's death he is edu- 
 cated by his widowed mother. 
 
 At the age of fourteen a midshipman's war- 
 rant is offered to him — with a brilliant pros- 
 pect of naval glory in the distance. He ac- 
 cepts the warrant — his destiny seems trem- 
 bling in the balance — when his mother, who 
 already saw a nobler theatre open before her 
 boy, induces him to surrender the idea of an 
 ocean life. 
 
 He is seventeen when he takes up the in- 
 struments of the surveyor's craft, and crossing 
 the Alleghanies, beholds, for the first time, the 
 customs of the Indian people. 
 
 Three years pass, and he is a pilgrim amid 
 the forms of external nature. 
 
 We behold him on the ocean, amid the ter- 
 ror of its storms, and very near the doom of 
 ita shipwrecks. His heart pillows the head of 
 a dying brother; he accompanies Laurence 
 Washington on a voyage to Barbadoes, and is 
 absent on the ocean, and on the shores of a 
 
 strange land, from the fad jf i751 until the 
 spring of 1753. 
 
 When Laurence dies, his young brother, 
 George Washington, a youth of twenty years, 
 is appointed executo? of his immense estates. 
 
 At the age of twenty-one, he is designated by 
 the Governor of Virginia as a Commissioner 
 to treat with the hostile French and their In- 
 dian allies, who threaten our western borders. 
 In the pursuit of the object of this mission, he 
 journeys 560 miles into the trackless wilder- 
 ness. 
 
 He is twenty-two when he first mingles in 
 battle ; his sword is unsheathed July 3, 1754, 
 at the fight of the Great Meadows. 
 
 And at the age of twenty-three, July 9th, 
 1775, he shares in the dangers of Braddock's 
 field, and saves the wreck of the defeated 
 army. 
 
 The great epochs of the Youth of Wash- 
 ington are written in the preceding paragraphs. 
 A wonderful youth indeed ! From the com- 
 mon school-house into the untrodden wilder- 
 ness ; from the couch of a dying brother into 
 the terror of battle, Washington had already 
 lived a life, before he was twenty-three years 
 old. 
 
 Let us, my friends, write the unwritten his- 
 tory of Washington, Not the dim outline 
 which History sketches, but a picture of the 
 Man — with color, shape, life and voice. Yes, 
 life ; for as we go on, among the shrines of the 
 Past, the dead will live with us ; and voice, 
 too ; for as we question the ghosts of other 
 days, they will answer us, although the 
 shadows of a hundred years brood over their 
 graves. 
 
 And ere we hasten forth upon our journey, 
 let us for a moment compare the youth ol 
 Washington with the boyhood of Arnold. 
 
 Washington, nourished by the counsels of a 
 mother, surrounded by powerful friends, and 
 with many a kind hand for his brow when it 
 was stricken with fever, many a kind voice for 
 his heart when it was heavy with sorrow. 
 
 Arnold, a friendless boy, left by an intem- 
 perate father to the — world ; guided, it is trut-, 
 by a kind mother, but a mother who saw all 
 the clouds of misfortune lowering upon her 
 path, and felt the heaviest blows of misery upon 
 her breast. 
 
20 
 
 WASHINGTON AND HIS MEN. 
 
 A contrast of terrible meaning. 
 
 Washington learns from his mother to bear 
 ill, to suffer all, and to hold on, through calm 
 and storm to the right. 
 
 Washington becomes the Man of a World. 
 
 Arnold, though swayed for a while by the 
 ■ essons of his mother, learns the bitter lesson 
 which the world teaches to him — learn by 
 heart to return hate with hate, and to fling 
 wrong into the face of wrong. 
 
 Arnold becomes the Omen of a world. 
 
 Learn from this the awful importance of 
 those early influences which shape the mind 
 
 and mould the heart. Youth is a tender plant 
 — beware how you tread upon it! Nurse it 
 generously, and one day it will bloom before 
 you in the manhood of a Washington. Crush 
 it, and it will one day wound your heel with 
 the serpent sting of Arnold. 
 
 And while we read together the great lesson 
 of Washington s youth, and trace, side by side, 
 the gradual steps by which he rose to great- 
 ness, let us never forget that there was one 
 blessing which followed him like a good angel, 
 anl breathed upon his soul the very atmos- 
 phere of Heaven — "The Memory of Mary 
 his Mother !" 
 
LEGEND FOURTH. 
 
 THE BOY AND THE BOOK. 
 
 One hour of silence and of thonjrht. 
 
 Who shall paint its history ? What power 
 of language, what eloquence of speech, can 
 paint the day-dreams that come like ghosts over 
 the mind of boyhood, and fling their shadowy 
 hands toward a distant but a gorgeous future ? 
 
 One summer day, upon a rock which over- 
 hung a wood-embosomed brook, there sat a 
 boy of fourteen years, clasping his hand over 
 a book which rested on his knee, while his ab- 
 sent gaze was fixed upon the wave below. 
 
 That wave, framed in foliage, mirrored in a 
 cloudless sky, warmed by the rays of a de- 
 clining sun. 
 
 The slender form of the boy was clad in a 
 dress of coarse grey ; his falling collar disclosed 
 his white throat ; his brown hair, shadowed 
 features remarkable at once for their firmly 
 chisseled outlines, and their expression of pre- 
 cocious thought. Those grey eyes, warming 
 and dilating under the boldly defined brows, 
 shone with the rapture of some absorbing day- 
 dream. 
 
 Near the boy, reclining on the rock which 
 overhung the stream, arose an aged oak, whose 
 massive trunk was garlanded with vines, while 
 it extended one rugged and gnarled limb, thick 
 with leaves, over the bosom of the waters. 
 
 And the boy reclining on the rock, and the 
 old tree clad in vines, looked, together, like an 
 image of Youth stretched at the feet of the 
 venerable Past. 
 
 On the rock, beside the boy, were scattered 
 various things which seem to indicate the sports 
 of youth, mingled with the grave thought of 
 manhood. A bow and three arrows — a com- 
 pass— a fishing rod, and a rusted sword, bat- 
 tered in the handle and dented in the blade. 
 
 But the eye of the boy was fixe-d upon the 
 
 waters with a dreamy, absent glance. He sat 
 for a long time like a statue — a dumb thing, 
 without power of speech or motion — his 
 clasped hands lay upon the old book, supported 
 by his knee. 
 
 Vines, whose green leaves embraced flowers 
 white as snow, were dipping in the waters with 
 every breath of the summer air — a solitary 
 bird hung trembling on the oaken bough, singing 
 as it swung, and filling the place with bursts of 
 wild music — the sun bathed the mass of fo- 
 liage with his rays, while yonder wall of leaves 
 was veiled in shadows — it was a beautiful 
 scene, an hour of peace, but the soul of the boy 
 was far away. 
 
 Once in the space of an hour he moved his 
 head. It was to grasp the hilt of the rusted 
 sword. Then something like a shadow passed 
 over his face, and his lip curled in a kind of 
 defiant smile. 
 
 Next his hand rested upon the book. A 
 massive volume, bound in dark leather, with 
 the traces of age upon its broad leaves, the 
 odor of time upon its bold and rugged type. 
 He lifted one lid of the book, and a blank leaf 
 was revealed — blank, save that it bore a name, 
 written in a quaint, round hand — 
 
 JOHN WASHINGTON — 1657. 
 
 For this book, more than a hundred years 
 old, had been brought from England by the 
 grandfather of this boy, at least one hundred 
 years before this summer day. That ancestor' 
 an exile from his native soil, brought the book 
 with him to the wilds of Virginia, and, believe 
 me, it brought a blessing with it : for, after 
 soothing many an hour of pain — lifting up 
 many a head bowed down by sickness — nerving 
 many a heart chilled by death — the book was 
 now, even in this calm summer hour, doing its 
 
 (21) 
 
22 
 
 WASHINGTON AND HIS MEN. 
 
 wondrous work in the brain of the dreaming 
 boy. 
 
 For there was power in the book. 
 
 He began to turn its pages — slowly, and 
 with an absent eye ; and as the broad leaves 
 passed between his fingers, the words printed 
 there took form and shape before the eye of 
 the boy, and spoke to his soul with low, soft 
 tones, very musical, and yet emphatic with a 
 divine power. 
 
 These were the visions which glided into 
 the soul of the boy, and made his heart beat 
 and his eye burn : 
 
 He saw a whole people, herded together in 
 a slavery, t-hat neither spared the white hairs of 
 age from its scorn, nor the frail limbs of in- 
 fancy from its lash. It was in a far distant 
 land, where a great river washed me base of 
 pyramids, and where plains blooming with gar- 
 dens and grand with temples, were canopied 
 by a sky without one cloud. And no voice 
 came to cheer this people in their slavery, no 
 hand was extended to lift them from their bon- 
 dage ; their history was written in two words — 
 Tears and Death. 
 
 But the time came when a son of a slave 
 raised his arm against the oppressor of his 
 brethren, and one night he spoke to the slaves, 
 even to the people of his race, and bade them 
 go out from bondage in the name of God ! 
 
 And the slaves heard the voice of tliis son of 
 a slave, and in the blackness of an awful night 
 
 — when every lord was weeping over the corse 
 of his first born — they went forth, a countless 
 hive of bondsmen, swarming to their freedom. 
 For they felt that the voice of God spoke from 
 the lips of the son of a slave, and so through 
 the gloom of night they began their sacred 
 march of freedom. And the sea parted before 
 them, and become dry land for the footsteps of 
 the slaves, and rolled back in angry waves upon 
 the armies of the oppressors who pursued them. 
 
 The name of that people was Israel — and 
 the son of the slave was Moses. 
 
 Do you wonder that the heart of the boy 
 burned within him, as he read the page which 
 recorded the great Exodus? He read of Moses 
 on the mountain top, in council with God 
 
 — of Moses on Mount Pisgah, looking into a 
 land like Eden — he read of the march in the 
 wilderness — of the pillar which was cloud by 
 
 day and fire by night — and then the thought 
 crossed his young soul — 
 
 " Shall the people of the New World be trod- 
 den in bondage, and will the Lord send to them 
 in their hour of darkness, a Moses — a Deli^ 
 
 VERER V 
 
 The Boy turned over the pages of tne 
 Book :— 
 
 New visions ! 
 
 The Patriot David hunted by Saul the 
 King, and hemmed in the cave of Adullam, like 
 a savage beast, his little band devoted to death, 
 his own body doomed to fill a Traitor's grave. 
 The King Solomon, rearing a Temple to the 
 Living God, and embodying all the glories of a 
 dream, in cedar and gold and stone. The 
 Prophet Isaiah, singing, with his divine music, 
 of the coming of a Blessed Time, when Ha- 
 tred should be dumb, and the redeemed World 
 listen only to the voice of Love. Judas Mac- 
 cabeus fighting for his country, even amid her 
 fallen altars, and holding on to her sacred ban- 
 ner-staff, even when the land for which he 
 fought produced no other fruit than corses — 
 the Priest-Hero battling for the land of David 
 against the legions of Rome, the cohorts of an 
 enslaved World. 
 
 These visions, and others as mighty and 
 sublime, started from the pages of the Book, 
 and glided into the soul of the dreaming boy. 
 
 And these are the lessons which the old Book 
 impressed upon the mind of the Boy : 
 
 The battle which is waged for Freedom is 
 holy in the sight of God 
 
 Jt is more glorious to perish on the scaffold 
 — even by the most abhorrent form of death, 
 by the axe, the cord, or the dagger — than to 
 live tamely under the yoke of Slavery. 
 
 The declining sun cast his last ray upon the 
 water — the breath of evening was among the 
 trees. And yet the boy, with a brightening 
 eye and a swelling heart, still turned over the 
 pages of the Book — 
 
 He saw a star shine through the gloom of 
 night, and move gently onward over plains 
 dotted with the shepherd's flock, and pause at 
 length above an humble shed, flinging its rays 
 upon the brow of a new-born ChUd. 
 
 This was the most beautiful dream of all. 
 
 For something there was in the life of that 
 Child, born so humbly in a way-side shed, and 
 
THE BOY AND THE BOOK. 
 
 aj 
 
 yet baptised in its first hour by the rays of a 
 star, that melted into the heart at once, and 
 filled it with a Peace unutterable. 
 
 The Boy read on. 
 
 The Child, grown to Boyhood, stands up in 
 a lofty trniple, and confutes grave Doctors and 
 learned Scribes — heaps confusion upon their 
 cunning and puts their intricate code of lies to 
 shame — by the simple learning of a Heart that 
 cantiot Hate, a Heart that finds Truth and Law 
 and Religion in the simple words — " Love one 
 another." 
 
 Then came scenes that made the heart of the 
 boy beat with pulsations of vivid joy, «ucoeeded 
 by oppressite sadness. His eyes were drowned 
 in tears. For the Child of whom he read, had 
 grown to manhood. He was derided by the 
 Priests, mocked by the minions of Kings, 
 crowned with thorns, and put to death on a 
 felon's tree — every instant of his agony, ac- 
 companied by some unutterable mockery. And 
 with all this — He — the being of whom the 
 Boy was reading — gave to his enemies love 
 for their scorn, blessings for their blows — yes, 
 to the World which disowned himj and raised 
 him in mockery upon its breast, he bequeathed 
 a deathless Testament of Forgiveness, a holy 
 Covenant of Brotherhood. And while the Boy 
 was reading, the evening shadows fell. The 
 sun passed down the sky, leaving only one 
 smile of light upon the waters. And yet the 
 Face of the Divine Being seemed to start from 
 tlie very gloom, and look with its deathless 
 eyes into the very eyes of the dreaming 
 Boy. 
 
 Do you assert that the lesson which the old 
 Book taught to the mind and the heart of the 
 Boy — in this still hour — ever lost its influence, 
 ever passed away ? 
 
 Or, did the words of the Book, dropping 
 imperceptibly into the heart of that Boy — ■ 
 gende as fragrant rain upon an opening flower 
 and yet mightier than armies — appear in his 
 Future life, in the shape of Deeds that win the 
 love of a Woild? 
 
 Who shall count the imperceptible steps by 
 which the soul of youth ascends to manhood, 
 gathering fresh vigor at every step, and coming 
 freer and bolder into the lijbt, as tba summit 
 grows near and nearer? 
 
 Who shall estimate the influence which the 
 old Book exercised upon the life of the solitary 
 Boy? 
 
 Other books would have taught him Glory 
 in the place of Duty — the life of Alexander 
 the Great would have learned him the blessing 
 of wholesale murder — the history of Oliver 
 Cromwell might have taught him the right to 
 destroy one form of oppression by another 
 form as gaUing. 
 
 But the old Book had a diff'erent lesson. 
 From the shadows of dead centuries it spoke 
 to the heart' of that Boy. Its words took 
 shape, and rose before him, even from the 
 tombs of long buried ages. And its lesson was 
 simply — it is right to battle in the cause of 
 freedom, because God has given the earth and 
 its fruits to all his children — All. Yet never, 
 even in warring for the right, forget that per- 
 fect freedom is only foiind in perfect love. 
 
LEGEND FIFTH. 
 
 THE CHALLENGE. 
 
 One evening in the fall of 1754, three gen- 
 tlemen were seated in a quiet room of an Inn^ 
 talking with each other with evident earnest- 
 ness, on a subject of much importance. 
 
 It was a comfortable chamber, with carefully 
 sanded floor, high-backed oaken chairs, and a 
 side-board, or beaufct, covered with decanters 
 and glasses. The centre of the room was oc- 
 cupied by a large table, on which a lighted can- 
 dle appeared, with a pair of pistols on one side, 
 a sheet of paper, pens and an ink-stand on the 
 other. And while the light of the candle fell 
 over the animated faces of the three gentlemen, 
 and the slight fire burning on the hearth imbued 
 the atmosphere with comfortable warmth, they 
 maintained their conversation with energetic 
 gestures, yet in a subdued and whispering tone. 
 
 The eldest of the three, a grim old man, with 
 bald head, and grey whiskers on his bronzed 
 cheek, was clad in a scarlet uniform. His 
 form was rather portly : the expression of his 
 grey eyes full of settled spleen ; the very wrin- 
 kles about his compressed lips, indicated a hasty 
 and irascible temper. The others, when they 
 spoke to him, called him " Captain," for, some 
 years before, he had served in th-e regular force 
 of the British Army, and although he had long 
 resigned his commission, the odor of his dig- 
 nity, as well as the gliUer of the uniform, 
 clung around him still. 
 
 He sat at the head of the table, resting his 
 hand upon the sheet of letter paper on which 
 he was writing, and writing a challenge for a 
 Duel. 
 
 The second of the party, a tall man, with fair 
 complexion, yet firm and regular features, was 
 clad in the costume of a planter ; he sat in an 
 arm chair, calmly smoking a cigar, and now 
 and then adding a word, which was to the con- 
 
 versation like a spark to a keg of gunpowder. 
 He was called " 'Squire." 
 
 The third, a slender young man, almost effemi- 
 nate in his appearance, and attired in a close-fit- 
 ting British uniform, sat at the foot of the table, 
 his delicate hands laid upon the pistols. They 
 were intended for the anticipated duel. The 
 eyes of this young man, large, dark, and in- 
 tensely brilliant, illumined a pale, thoughtful 
 face, and his mouth was impressed with a 
 smile, which had as much of scorn as of mirth 
 for its meaning. He was known by the others 
 as " the Ensign." 
 
 And these three men, by the light of a wax 
 candle, cheered by the kindly warmth of a wood 
 fire, had secluded themselves in the Inn-room, 
 in the early hours of an autumnal evening, in 
 order to plan a deadly combat, and prepare the 
 way over which two living men might journey 
 speedily to their coffins and the grave-yard. 
 
 It was, in fact, a Council of War. 
 
 Let us listen to the " Ensign," while he ex- 
 plains the cause of the duel; there is music in 
 his delicately modulated voice : 
 
 " This day, gentlemen, our town was the 
 scene of the greatest excitement. An election 
 was held for a member of Assembly: of 
 course there was a great crowd, and a vast 
 deal of hard talking and hard swearing. The 
 excitement was no means diminished by the 
 presence of a regiment of soldiers, who now 
 make their quarters in the town. I have the 
 honor to hold the commission of " Ensign" in 
 that regiment, gentlemen, as you well know. 
 The colonel is idolized by his men, although 
 he is, like myself, only a boy of twenty-two. 
 You know the history of his campaign in the 
 West, among the French and Indians. What 
 Virginian does not know it by heart ? And 
 (25) 
 
36 
 
 WASHTNGTON AND HIS MEN. 
 
 this Colonel, idolized by his men, loved by 
 every Virginian heart, was this day, in the 
 pjesence of hundreds — yes, in the court-yard 
 of Alexandria — levelled to the earth by a 
 blow from a club !" 
 
 The Ensign lifted the pistols, and glanced 
 into the faces of his friends, as if to note the 
 effect of his words. 
 
 " Saw it myself," said the 'Squire, speaking 
 between puffs of smoke. " Colonel was struck 
 to the earth, by a man not five feet high ; 
 Colonel is six feet three inches. Dispute 
 ibout the election merits of the different can- 
 didates. Colonel gave Payne the lie ! and 
 Payne seized a club and let him have it. Sum 
 total of the whole matter — the lie and the 
 blow have passed, and they must fight." 
 
 The 'Squire knocked the ashes from his 
 cigar. 
 
 "I have written the challenge," gruffly ex- 
 claimed the Captain, looking round with an 
 emphatic grimace. " Ensign, will you act as 
 the Colonel's friend, or shall I ? As pretty a 
 little affair as I ever saw. They can take a 
 little bit of green meadow, by daylight to-mor- 
 row, and fire a couple of rounds, and settle the 
 matter like — gentlemen." 
 
 And the worthy Captain confirmed his sen- 
 timent with an oath of remarkable emphasis. 
 " They must fight, said the 'Squire, " as Vir- 
 ginians!" 
 
 " The Colonel will be forever disgraced as a 
 soldie» unless he shoots this Payne," said the 
 Ensign, in his mild voice. 
 
 " Zounds gentlemen, a blow ! D'ye hear 
 
 me, a blow with a club " began the 
 
 Captain. 
 
 " In the open court-yard, too, in the pre- 
 sence of hundreds," interrupted the 'Squire. 
 
 " The very soldiers would have massacred 
 Payne, if the Colonel had not interfered," said 
 the Ensign, joining in the chorus. "Certainly 
 it is the most aggravated case that ever came to 
 my notice." 
 
 It was an aggravated case. The Colonel, a 
 gallant youth of twenty-two, who had done 
 brave service in the wilderness, to be degraded 
 by a blow, and not only covered with insult, 
 but struck to the very earth, at the feet of his 
 antagonist. It was galling. There was no 
 ether way of redressing the wrong, and wash- 
 
 ing out the insult, save in the blood of one or 
 other, or both of the parties. And then 
 
 "I know the Colonel," said the Ensign, 
 still handling the pistols ; " calm and resolved 
 in the hour of battle, he is a man of impetu- 
 ous temper; there is hot blood in his veins." 
 
 " He is in the next chamber," whispered 
 the 'Squire, " boiling over with a sense of the 
 insult, no doubt. Do not speak loud. He 
 will overhear us — it is not well to drive him 
 to madness." 
 
 "And yet he must hear us," — the portly 
 Captain started from his chair, "and without 
 delay. For, odds-blood, d'ye see, we must 
 arrange the preliminaries." 
 
 He moved to the door of the next chamber, 
 holding the written challenge in his hand. 
 The Ensign followed, grasping the pistols, and 
 the 'Squire came next with his — cigar. 
 
 The Captain knocked — a pause — no an- 
 swer. 
 
 " He is mad with excitement, no doubt," 
 whispered the ex-officer, turning to his com- 
 rades with a sly leer, for he considered a duel 
 as a capital joke, and the funeral which fol- 
 lowed it, as a striking lesson for the young. 
 
 He pushed open the door, and the party 
 entered the. room in which the Colonel sat 
 alone — doubtless chafed to very madness by 
 the memory of the wrong. 
 
 A wax candle, burning on a table, revealed 
 the furniture of a spacious chamber, and the 
 figure of a gentleman, absorbed in writing. 
 And while he wrote, with his hand ghding 
 rapidly over the paper, he cast his eyes, very 
 often, toward a miniature which lay near his 
 hand. His back was turned toward the three; 
 of course they could not see his face nor re- 
 mark the agitation of his features. 
 
 He" did not hear the opening door, nor heed 
 the sound of footsteps, but absorbed by his 
 thoughts, continued writing. 
 
 " Go forward, and tap him oji the shoulder," 
 whispered the Colonel to the Ensign. 
 
 The Ensign advanced on tip-toe, and gliding 
 over the dark mahogany floor, raised his hand 
 to place it on the Colonel's shoulder, when his 
 eye was arrested by the miniature, and his up- 
 lifted hand dropped by his side. 
 
 He sank backward, v^fith a noiseless footstep, 
 and whispered .to the gruff Captain. 
 
THE CHALLENGE. 
 
 " I cannot do it now. It is his mother's 
 picture. He is writing to her — a last letter, 
 may be." 
 
 The 'Squire now assumed the task, and 
 said, " Good evening, Colonel !" in a loud, 
 hearty voice. 
 
 The Colonel rose, and greeted his visitors 
 with a manner which combined all the grace 
 and warmth of youth with the dignity of riper 
 years. 
 
 As he stood near the table, his form in all 
 its majesty of stature, and his face with all its 
 firmness of character, disclosed by the light, 
 the three gentlemen could not but acknowledge 
 that he presented a splendid mark for a — 
 duelling pistol. 
 
 The mark of the blow darkened his white 
 forehead. His hair, nut brown in color, and 
 without powder, fell in careless masses aside 
 from his face. He was very pale ; his eyes 
 were bloodshot,_and from his loosened cravat 
 to his torn ruffles, everything about his attire, 
 had a wild and disordered appearance. 
 
 As he stood with one hand resting on the 
 table, and the other extended toward his 
 friends, they might recognize that blue uniform, 
 which had been marked many a time by the 
 bullet of the foe. 
 
 " I have written a challenge, Colonel," said 
 the Captain, advancing. 
 
 " He struck you down in the presence of hun- 
 dreds" — and the Ensign drew near. 
 
 "As a Virginian you must fight;" — the 
 Planter also advanced. 
 
 " Gentlemen — my friends — " said the Col- 
 onel, in a voice which was tremulous with 
 emotion, "you say very justly to me, "you 
 must fight.' This is the law of the code of 
 honor ; is it not 1 Well : I will meet Mr. 
 Payne. I have made my preparations. I 
 have just written a letter to my mother, in 
 which I inform her that to-morrow morning I 
 will go out into a meadow, and let Mr. Payne 
 shoot me through the heart. That is right — 
 is it not ?" 
 
 " But you forget, my dear Colonel, that you 
 are decidedly the best shot of the two. And 
 as for the sword, Payne cannot come near you. 
 "You will shoot Payne, my dear Colonel, and 
 there the matter will end." 
 
 The Ensign uttered these .words in his 
 
 27 
 
 mildest voice, and with the most gentlemanly 
 bow in the world. 
 
 " Yes, it is true the matter will end thete," 
 said the Colonel, as he saw his friends encircle 
 him, " unless, indeed, some day or other I 
 should happen to meet a wife, or a mother, or 
 even a sister and hear words like those 
 whispered in my ear — ' Murderer ! I demand 
 my child ! or my ' brother .'' or yet my ' hus- 
 band .'' This, you will confess, would be very 
 unpleasant." 
 
 The three friends were silent. 
 
 The Planter lit the end of his cigar. The 
 Ensign examined the mountings of the pistols. 
 The Captain began to be very much interested 
 in the words of the written challenge. 
 
 And the Colonel, looking from face to face, 
 awaited an answer. 
 
 " So you all see, my good friends^ that if 
 there is to be a corpse" — he paused, and the 
 three friends began to feel uneasy — " a corpse 
 in this affair, I would much rather be that 
 corpse myself, than to have the weight of a 
 murder on my soul." 
 
 "But the insult — it was galling," cried the 
 Ensign, his face flushed and his eye brighten- 
 ing. 
 
 " It was indeed galling," said the Colonel, 
 " but the provocation ?" 
 
 " You gave him the lie ! and you were right, 
 
 by !" said the Captain, in his deepest 
 
 bass. 
 
 " Let us understand the question fully," 
 resumed the Colonel, in that deep tone, and 
 with that steady glance which exercised an 
 irresistible influence over his friends. " I am 
 six feet three inches in height. You all ac- 
 knowledge that I possess great personal 
 strength. Mr. Payne, on the contrary, is 
 neither remarkable for his stature nor for his 
 physical power. And I — in the presence of 
 my soldiers and my friends, call Mr. Payne 
 by the most opprobrious word known in our 
 language. Was I right, or was I wrong, my 
 friends ? Which do you most admire, gentle- 
 men, my gallantry in thus insulting Mr. 
 Payne, or the courage of Mr. Payne in knock- 
 ing me down — by an unexpected blow, it is 
 true — but in the presence of my soldiers and 
 my friends ?" 
 
 A deep pause followed these words. 
 
28 
 
 WASHINGTON AND HIS MEN. 
 
 Zounds ! If I cnn comprehend yovi. 
 Colonel," cried the Captain. 
 
 " Am I to shoot Mr. Payne because I in- 
 sulted him ?" asked the Colonel ! — " or, am I 
 to shoot him because he was too brave to bear 
 my insult? These are questions which I would 
 like setded before I kill him, gentlemen." 
 
 And the Colonel turned away — looked forth 
 from the window upon the star-lit sky — while 
 his three friends gazed wonderingly in each 
 other's faces. 
 
 The Colonel remained by the window for at 
 least five minutes, gazing upon the sky, while 
 the mark of the blow darkened over his fore- 
 head. His thoughts may have been dark, 
 bitter — but while he stood there, his three 
 friends remained near the table, looking into 
 one another's faces, but without speaking a 
 word. 
 
 " If you were in my place, Ensign, what 
 would you do ?" asked the Colonel, as he 
 came toward the light again. 
 
 " I would sooner be tied to a tree, among 
 the Indians, with their scalping knives flashing 
 before my face, than to bear that blow !" said 
 the Ensign, with a gleaming eye. 
 
 " And I would sooner lead off ten forlorn 
 hopes, old as I am, than to avoid one challenge, 
 or skulk one duel !" 
 
 The old soldier pulled his whiskers with 
 needless violence, and stamped his foot upon 
 the floor until the chamber shook again. 
 
 " And as for me, I'm neither a young nor 
 an old soldier, but as a Virginian, sooner than 
 bear that blow, I would blow my brains out 
 with one of these pistols." 
 
 The Colonel lowered his head — his face 
 was shadowed by thought. 
 
 " Wherefore, genflemen ?" he asked, in a 
 changed voice, as he shaded his eyes with his 
 hand. 
 
 " Because, to refuse to fight, in a case like 
 this, is to wear the name of a — coward." 
 
 " And you have not the courage to wear 
 the name of coivard ?" exclaimed the Colonel, 
 
 still shading his face — " Yes,, gentlemen," 
 
 and he raised his face, no longer gloomy and 
 pale, but flushed and smiling — " by your own 
 confession, the courage manifested in dying at 
 an Indian stake, or in perishing in a forlorn 
 hope, or in blowing one's brains out with a 
 
 suicide's pistol, is nothing— absolutely nothing 
 — compared with that kind of courage which 
 enables a man to face the name of coward, 
 aye, and wear it too !" 
 
 The young Colonel was magnificent in 
 battle — stately in the ball room — glorious on 
 his war horse — but now, as he pronounced 
 these words, with a flushed cheek, brilliant eye, 
 and clear deep voice, his three friends acknow- 
 ledged in their whispers.that although his ideas 
 were " deuced bad," his appearance, his man- 
 ner, was imposing be)'ond all power of words. 
 
 The countenance of the three friends, how- 
 ever, were clouded. 
 
 "My dear fellow," and the pale Ensign laid 
 his hand upon the arm of his friend ; " I have 
 fought by your side. You know me. These 
 things abstractly considered, mark you, are 
 precisely as you say. But come to the 
 practical view of the matter. There is not a 
 young man in Virginia with prospects like 
 yours. You will soon be called upon to lead 
 your regiment against the common enemy, to 
 wit, the allied bands of French and Indians. 
 But you cannot go out to battle for your 
 country with a dishonored name. You have 
 been disgraced by a blow — disgraced, mark 
 you. You must wash out your disgrace in 
 blood." 
 
 The Ensign spoke with feeling. His com- 
 panions murmured assent. 
 
 The brow of the Colonel grew cloudy ; his 
 eyes brightened with a deadly fire. 
 
 " There must be a duel," he said with some- 
 thing like scorn or vengeance on his lip. 
 " Gentlemen will j'ou excuse me for half an 
 hour ? I myself will write the challenge." 
 
 The three friends retired from the room, 
 and the Colonel was left alone. 
 
 Alone, with the fatal mark upon his fore- 
 head, the insult rankling in his heart, and the 
 — face of his widowed mother before his 
 eyes. 
 
 We dare not describe the emotions of that 
 half hour. 
 
 When it passed, he came forth, and stood 
 on the threshold, holding a billet in his right 
 hand. The three friends started to their feet, 
 with one movement of surprise. The Colonel* 
 stood before them, not in military array, but in 
 festival costume ; his hair carefully powdered, 
 
THE CHALLENGE, 
 
 29 
 
 his dark attire relieved by a white cravat and 
 white waistcoat, snow-vhite ruflies about his 
 hands, and neat diamond bucliles on his shoes. 
 By his side he wore a plain dress sword. 
 
 But his powdered hair and white cravat, 
 while they threw his remarkable features into 
 bold relief, and by contrast, gave a deeper 
 bloom to his cheek, a clearer light to his eyes, 
 only made the mark on his forehead more 
 dark and palpable. 
 
 " Which of you will hear this challenge to 
 Mr. Payne ?" 
 
 • The three friends answered as with one 
 voice — "I will — and I — and I !" 
 
 "In my room — at an early hour — to- 
 morrow P'' said the Colonel, very calmly, but 
 with a singular emphasis upon the words. 
 " You understand, gentlemen ?" 
 
 He handed the challenge to the Ensign. 
 
 "In your room" — began the portly Cap- 
 tain. 
 
 " In my room, my good friend — for es- 
 pecial reasons," answered the young officer, 
 " and hark ye, Captain ! Let as many of our 
 mutual friends, as were witnesses to the insult 
 be present, at the hour of seven, you will re- 
 member ?" 
 
 "That's it, my boy," cried the bluff Cap- 
 tain. " Now you begin to talk !" 
 
 But the Ensign did not like the strange 
 calmness of the Colonel's face, nor did the 
 Planter knov/ how to construe his festival at- 
 tire. 
 
 " You are not in uniform. Colonel," he 
 whispered. 
 
 " Oh, no !" and the Colonel glanced at his 
 attire ; " you remember there is a ball this 
 evening. I must be present. There will be 
 many of our fair ladies and a goodly array of 
 
 gentlemen, no doubt. On no account would 1 
 be absent from the ball" — • 
 
 " Yet you may have some little affairs to ar- 
 range," hinted the Ensign — "before a duel, 
 Colonel, there are letters to write, and you will 
 need some sleep " — 
 
 The Colonel took his brother officer by the 
 hand and looked intently into his eyes — 
 
 " Harry ! Do you think a man who has 
 resolved to commit murder by the morrow's 
 light, can pass the night before the deed, in 
 writing letters, or in wholesome slumber, 
 cheered by pleasant dreams ? No ! If I must 
 murder, or be murdered to- morrow morning, 
 for the sake of Honor, I will pass this night in 
 the dance — among beautiful ladies — and 
 groups of friends. We will have gaiety — 
 dance — song! Come, my friends — who's 
 for the ball ?" 
 
 And the gallant Colonel led forth his friends 
 to the festival of that night — all save the 
 Ensign, who went to bear the challenge 
 And whether the beautiful women of Virginia 
 flouted in the dance, or strains of merry mu- 
 sic awoke the echoes of the lighted hall, or 
 groups of admirers clustered round some fair 
 one, pre-eminent for her loveliness — still, 
 amid every form of gaiety, the Colonel was 
 the most prominent; the first, the liveliest and 
 the handsomest of all the men who were 
 gathered there. 
 
 And all the while as a King might bear his 
 crown, or a victor his laurels, the Colonel 
 bore the livid marks upon his forehead. 
 
 And the dancers who saw him, so gallant 
 and so gay — shuddered when they saw the 
 wound of the fatal blow upon his forehead — 
 and many a fair daughter of Virginia whia 
 pered, with accents of undisguised terror, the 
 words — "To-morrow! * * * The Duel!" 
 
LEGEND SIXTH. 
 
 THE duel: 
 
 OR, COURAGE THAT IS NOT AFRAID OF THE NAME OF "COWARD.' 
 
 The morrow came. 
 
 The room of the Colonel in the Inn of 
 Alexandria, was the theatre of a remarkable 
 scene. Through the uncurtained windows 
 came the light of the early dawn, and there 
 you might behold a glimpse of a river, glim- 
 mering faintly in the ray of a fading star. 
 
 Silence reigned through the chamber — 
 silence and gloom — although some twenty 
 persons were assembled there. In one corner 
 stood the bed, with unruffled coverlet ; in the 
 centre was the table, and around were seated 
 the gentlemen who had been summoned as 
 witnesses of the approaching Duel, 
 
 These gentlemen — some of whom were 
 officers in the Colonel's regiment, others 
 planters of broad lands and immense fortunes 
 — sat in silence, gazing with folded arms upon 
 the table which stood in the centre, or through 
 the gloom into each others' faces. 
 
 The bluff Captain was there, but he had 
 forgotten all his apt sayings about Honor and 
 Chivalry ; near him the Ensign, whose pale 
 face, paler in fact than ever, indicated a night 
 of anxious thought, and then our fi-iend the 
 Planter, who although the hour was early, and 
 he had not yet broken his fast, still pressed 
 a cigar between his lips, and hid his face in a 
 curtain of smoke. 
 
 The Colonel and the challenged man alone 
 were absent. As for the Colonel, he was in 
 the next room, attending to his letters, and — 
 perchance — to his last will and testament. 
 
 The first ray of sunrise shot through the 
 window and trembled upon the vacant table. 
 
 As if that beam, breaking in upon the gloom, 
 had unloosened their hearts and tongues, the 
 gentlemen began to whisper with each other. 
 One spoke of the sad and fatal necessity of 
 
 Murder involved in the Code of Honor — 
 another of the widows and orphans who had 
 been made by that blessed code — a third of 
 the efficacy of a sword thrust, in healing 
 broken hearts, or of the short and easy method 
 of patching up "self-respect" by a — pistol 
 shot. 
 
 Some spoke of the character of the young 
 Colonel, who, but twenty-two years old, might 
 be cold and stiff before an hour was gone. 
 
 And others of his antagonist — of the virtues 
 which bound him to the hearts of many dear 
 friends — of the ties which held him fast to 
 life. Before an hour, very possibly, that 
 antagonist would be a — corpse. 
 
 Our friend, the bluff Captain closed all argu- 
 ment by the emphatic — "The Colonel's 
 been struck and he must fight ! " The Planter 
 said nothing, but smoked his cigar ; maybe he 
 was thinking of his home, and calling to mind 
 the Mother who might hear of the Colonel's 
 death, ere the day was two hours older. 
 
 As for the Ensign, he had nothing to sav. 
 It was his part to see that the weapons nf 
 murder were fairly prepared, and that the 
 murder itself was done according to rule. That 
 was all he had to do with the matter. And he 
 waited for the hour of the performance with 
 commendable impatience. 
 
 At last the Ensigti pulled out his watch, 
 and announced the hour of — " Seven ! " 
 
 There was a general movement, and at the 
 same moment the two doors of the chamber 
 were suddenly opened. 
 ~ Through the door opening into the hall, 
 came a very tall, slim gentleman with a pistol- 
 case under his arm. 
 
 " The second of Mr. Payne ! " burst from 
 twenty tongues 
 
 (31) 
 
32 
 
 WASHINGTON AND HIS MEN. 
 
 And this tall slim gentleman, with the pislol- 
 case under his arm, was followed by a gen- 
 tleman whose short and stout form — well 
 knit withal — and not unpleasing features, 
 indicated the antagonist of the Colonel, Mr. 
 Payne himself, who yesterday levelled the 
 popular favorite in the dust. 
 
 The second bowed and laid his pistol-case 
 on the table ; Mr. Payne bowed and folded 
 his arms. His courage was unquestioned, but 
 his face was impressed with an expression of 
 seriousness — maybe — gloom. 
 
 " The Colonel is good with the rifle, good 
 with the pistol, good with the small sword ! " 
 So the whisper ran round the room. 
 
 "And he'll wing his man," rather rudely 
 whispered the Captain. 
 
 The Ensign rose, bowed twice, once to Mr. 
 Payne, then to the second, and then in low 
 tones, began to confer with the second upon 
 the arms to be used, and the form to be observed 
 in the approaching duel. Their whispers 
 alone broke the breathless stillness. With 
 rifle or with sword, or with pistol? Here in 
 this room, or in the open air? Shall a fallen 
 'kerchief be the signal for them to begin? 
 How many thrusts, how many shots, how 
 much blood before " satisfaction" is given ? 
 
 Such was the hurried conversation of the 
 " seconds," conducted in animated whispers, 
 now with a bow and again with a smile. The 
 politest man in the world is the " second" of 
 a duel. 
 
 Meanwhile Mr. Payne stood alone ' — his 
 arms folded — his eyes now fixed on the 
 mantel-piece, now wandering to the window. 
 Perchance he felt that his position was rather 
 awkward ; or thought how cheerful the sunshine 
 looked, and how gloomy it would seem, if in 
 an hour or more, those beams would light up 
 the cold face of a corpse — or the cold face.s 
 of two corpses. 
 
 Mr. Payne awaited with great impatience 
 for the end of the second's conversation, and 
 or the coming of — his antagonist. 
 
 We have forgotten the opening of the other 
 door. Through that door the Colonel came, 
 at the very moment that Mr. Payne and his 
 friend strode through the other. He remained 
 for a moment concealed by the shadow j)f the 
 bed, and then stepped suddenly into view, 
 before the very eyes of Mr. Payne. 
 
 That gentleman started back with involun 
 tary surprise, as he caught first, a glimpse of 
 his antagonist's shadow, and then a full view 
 of that antagonist himself. 
 
 A murmur swelled through the apartment, 
 at the contrast presented by the personal 
 appearance of Mr. Payne, as compared with 
 the tall and imposing figure of the Virginia 
 Colonel. Not that Mr. Payne was at all an 
 unhandsome man, nor that his firm features 
 lack expression, but the Colonel was a man 
 whom you would remark not only for the 
 majesty of his stature, but for the expression 
 of his fece, among a crowd of ten thousand 
 men. 
 
 And a burning blush overspread Mr. Payne's 
 face, as he saw his antagonist standing before 
 him, looking into his face — wearing the very 
 uniform which he had worn yesterday — 
 bearing upon his brow the livid scar of that 
 fatal insult. 
 
 But Mr. Payne had no time for thought. 
 " TVe have arranged the preliminaries" 
 exclaimed the seconds, turning suddenly round, 
 and starting with surprise as they beheld their 
 principals standing face to face. 
 
 Again Mr. Payne blushed as he saw the 
 eye of the Colonel fixed upon him, and then 
 folding his arms, he knit his brow and gazed 
 sternly into his antagonist's face. 
 
 The gentlemen present rose with one move- 
 ment. You might have heard the beating of 
 your own heart, all was so breathlessly still. 
 Not a spectator but anticipated a personal con- 
 flict. 
 
 " Mr. Pa3'ne," the Colonel began. 
 Mr. Payne retreated a step, still folding his 
 arms. 
 
 " Yesterday I called you ' Liar !" ' 
 " You did" cried Payne, with a flush of 
 anger. "And — " 
 
 " You levelled me to theground," continued 
 the Colonel. " Behold the mark of your blow !" 
 He paused — the silence deepened. The 
 Colonel's voice and look were calm, but firm ; 
 Payne's face was flushed ; his eye indignant. 
 " And now, sir, I have a word to say to 
 you," continued the Colonel, still calm and 
 firm. " And first let me ask a question. Is 
 it manly — is it Christian, to attempt to justify 
 a wrong by a murder ? Or, is it more 
 generous, more just, to confess a wrong with 
 
(33) 
 
THE DUEL. 
 
 frankness, and solicit forgiveness from the 
 injured? Yesterday I applied an unjust and 
 ungentlemanly epithet to you — you promptly 
 avenged yourself — are you satisfied? Here's 
 my hand — let us be friends !" 
 
 Long before the words had passed from the 
 Colonel's mouth — long before the spectators 
 recovered from their stupefaction — Payne had 
 Hung both hands toward his antagonist. The 
 tears were streaming from his eyes. 
 
 The seconds recoiled — the audience had 
 no speech ; they could only stand and look. 
 
 Then the Colonel, with the mark on his 
 forehead, led Mr. Payne toward the table. A 
 decanter stood there, with two glasses. 
 
 " Gentlemen," said the Colonel, filling a 
 glass and handing it to Payne, and then raising 
 one to his own lips — " I give you the health 
 of my good friend, Mr. Payne." 
 
 They emptied their glasses with one impulse. 
 " And now, gentlemen, allow me to hope, 
 that when, in after time, you recall the various 
 personal combats which you have witnessed, 
 you will remember with something like 
 admiration the Duel of Mr. Payne and his 
 enemy, George Washington !" 
 
 Was there one man in thaf assemblage who 
 could have called young Washington, Coward ? 
 And it was because he had " courage enough 
 to bear the name of Coward," that he became 
 the man of counsel and of Battle — the 
 Deliverer of a Country — the President of a 
 free People — his name the watchword of all 
 time. 
 
 For a moment let us glance upon a far 
 difli'erent scene, which took place after the 
 Revolution. 
 
 There is the blush of dawn upon the 
 Hudson. In a glade, shaded by rocks over- 
 grown with vines, and canopied by a glimpse 
 of blue sky, two men stand ready for the Duel. 
 
 In other words, they have come here, in the 
 silence ofthe morning time, to do Murder, in 
 accordance with the rules of Honor. 
 
 Both of the same age — the very prime of 
 mature manhood — renowned alike in the 
 history of their country — they stand apart, 
 while the " seconds" load the pistols and 
 measure the ground, 
 
 One attracts your attention with his great 
 forehead, indented between the brows, and 
 swelling with the sublime proportions of a 
 great soul. 
 
 That is Alexander Hamilton, 
 
 The other wins your gaze, not only by his 
 forehead, but by the indescribable, almost 
 supernatural yascina^ion of his eyes. 
 
 That is Aaron Burr. 
 
 They have been together in the Revolution, 
 in the tent of Wa.shington, — amid the perils 
 of battle, — among the wintry hills of Valley 
 Forge. 
 
 Both great intellects, renowned alike for elo- 
 quence and courage ; they have come here, to 
 steal side-long glances at each other for a little 
 while — and then stand back to back, and, at 
 a word, wheel and murder. 
 
 Burr challenges Hamilton, but Hamilton, 
 unlike Washington, has not the " Courage to 
 bear the name of Coward." Hamilton, con- 
 vinced, as any man in his senses must be, that 
 the law of Duel is simply a law of Murder, 
 accepts the challenge, and flings his life away 
 like Abner of old. 
 
 Gaze upon the cold /ace of Alexander 
 Hamilton — behold Aaron Burr shrink shnd- 
 deringly away from the corpse — and then 
 contrast the conduct of Hamilton and Burr, 
 the one accepting the challenge tendered by 
 the other — with the sublime courage of 
 Washington' — "a Courage which was not 
 afraid of the name of Coward." 
 
LEGEND SEVENTH. 
 
 THE HUNTER OF THE ALLEGHANIES. 
 
 Ninety-three years ago — from the ninth of 
 Juiv, 1848 — a man of almost giant stature, 
 clad in the garb of a hunter, emerged from the 
 shadows of a western forest, and stood in the 
 sunlight, upon the summit of a rock, which over- 
 hung the waves of a wood-embosomed river. 
 
 It was a calm day in summer. There was 
 no cloud in the sky ; no shadow on the waves. 
 The air whispered in subdued murmurs through 
 the leaves of the colossal trees, and the river, 
 flashing in the sun, rolled through the solitude 
 with wild flowers scattered upon its bosom. 
 
 And the hunter, a man of gaunt form, and 
 sunburnt face, seamed with scars, rested his 
 arms upon his rifle, and surveyed the scene 
 with a quiet delight. Standing thus alone, 
 amid the silence and verdure of the green 
 forest, he looked like an impersonation of those 
 rugged pioneers of the white race, who com- 
 bine the craft of civilization, with the costume 
 and manners of the red men. 
 
 The scene was marked by peculiar features. 
 Gazing up the river, the hunter beheld on one 
 side the sombre verdure of a trackless forest, 
 advancing to the very brink of the waters ; on 
 the other a level plain — bordered by woods 
 — succeeded by a sloping hill, with depth of 
 woods beyond, rising boldly into the summer 
 sky. 
 
 There were dismal ravines among those 
 woods — paths of difficulty and danger, beside 
 that river ; and the hunter clutched his rifle, 
 while a grim smile crossed his scarred features 
 as the thought of his Indian foes flashed over 
 his brain. 
 
 Still, clad in his garb of skins, with a hunt- 
 ing- Er.irt worn over all, and girt by a leathern 
 belt to his waist, this man of the wilderness, 
 whose delight it was to track ihe wild beast to 
 
 its lair, or follow the Indian on his way of 
 death, leaned upon his rifle, while his sunken 
 eyes began to flash and brighten in his sun- 
 burnt face. 
 
 It was high noon. 
 
 The silence of the wilderness was unbroken 
 by a sound. 
 
 Here waved the forest leaves, gorgeous with 
 the drapery of summer ; there flashed the river, 
 bearing stray flowers upon its tremulous 
 bosom ; yonder, on the northern shore, 
 extended the plain, with the hill rising gently 
 toward the distant wood. 
 
 In fact, the river and the plain, and sloping 
 hill, embosomed among woods, smiled in the 
 noonday sun, without one floating cloud to 
 shadow their beauty, or dim the tranquil azure 
 of the summer sky. 
 
 While the hunter stood on the projecting 
 rock, drinking the silence and the fragrance of 
 the untrodden wild, a change came suddenly 
 over the scene. The blast of a war trumpet 
 was borne upon the air ; a war banner flut- 
 tered in glimpses on the sight. 
 
 That trumpet was the voice of an army ; 
 that banner waved over the heads of twelve 
 hundred men in battle array. 
 
 It was a very beautiful sight to see, as 
 emerging from the shadows, they came along 
 the southern bank of the river, with the great 
 forest on one hand, and the river, rolling and 
 flashing on the other. Banners were waving 
 there, and drum answered to trumpet, as they 
 came, and the tread of twelve hundred men 
 awoke the echoes of the woody glen. 
 
 There were British soldiers with their scar- 
 let coats glaring, and their burnished arms 
 flashing in the sun ; there was the pride of the 
 Virginian chivalry, clad in huntsman attire ; 
 (37) 
 
38 
 
 WASHINGTON AND HIS MEN. 
 
 and there, riding leisurely along, upon a snow- 
 white steed, came the general of the host, upon 
 whose word hung twelve hundred lives. 
 
 He was a man of commanding presence, 
 with a golden-hilted sword by his side, and a 
 laced chapeau upon his forehead. A scarlet 
 coat, adorned with gold lace, displayed the 
 strength and elegance of his warrior form ; his 
 florid face, stamped with an abiding com- 
 placency, was rufHed with a smile. 
 
 Around him rode a band of gallant men, the 
 officers of his staff, arrayed, like their General, 
 in scarlet and tinsel. 
 
 Only one in that band was attired in dif- 
 ferent costume ; only one did not mingle in 
 the laughter, or take part in the careless con- 
 versation. 
 
 He was a youth of twenty-three years, and 
 his pale cheek bore traces of sickness. Over 
 his blue uniform a hunting shirt was thrown, 
 but it did not conceal the noble outline of his 
 tall form, nor altogether hide the proportions 
 of his manly chest. Mounted upon a dark 
 bay horse, he rode forward in silence, his grey 
 eyes flashing from his pale face with steady 
 light. 
 
 On this side the woods — yonder the river 
 — around him the glitter of tinsel and the 
 waving of plumes, and the youth of twenty-three 
 years laid one hand absently upon the flowing 
 mane of his steed, while the other rested upon 
 the hilt of his sword. His thoughts were far 
 away — his absent eye and pale cheek con- 
 trasted strongly with the laughing faces wJiich 
 encircled him. 
 
 The General and hisStaff" were thinking gay 
 thoughts and talking pleasant words in that 
 quiet summer hour. 
 
 The youth of twenty-three was the only 
 silent one in the band. Unsheathing his gold- 
 hilted swordi the General pointed to the 
 opposite shore, where the level plain, em- 
 bosomed among woods, rose into a gently slo- 
 ping hill, backed by a sombre forest and a 
 smiling sky : 
 
 " Before sunset, Fort Duquesne is ours," he 
 said, with a smile. " Our men will cross the 
 river at this ford, ascend yonder hill, and 
 traverse ten miles of forest road, which lie 
 between us and the fort, ere the setting of the 
 sun. The banner of his Majesty will wave 
 over the conquered fort before the day is gone." 
 
 The gallant men who rode near their General 
 chorussed his words, and amid the tramp of 
 that legion of armed men, the roll of drum and 
 the peal of trumpet, you might have heard 
 their exclarj.ations — 
 
 " Before sunset, the flag will wave over the. 
 conquered fort !" 
 
 The youth of twenty-three did not mingle 
 in the chorus. He cast his glance toward the 
 opposite shore — toward those magnificent 
 woods, whose depths embosomed dismal 
 ravines — toward the far-off hill-top, which 
 was separated from Fort Duquesne by a wil- 
 derness of ten miles.; and his lip was com- 
 pressed, his cheek grew paler, his eye gathered 
 new fire. 
 
 Only the night before he had started from 
 the sick couch and mounted his war horse. 
 Perchance the fever still lingered in his veins ; 
 but his face was shrouded in sadness — his 
 heart was shadowed by a vague but over- 
 whelming foreboding. 
 
 The General turned to him with a laugh — 
 
 " Colonel, you are gloomy to-day," he said. 
 " But then you have just risen from a sick 
 couch, and the road is rough and fatiguing. 
 In a little while, however, the danger and the 
 peril will be over. To-night we will sleep in 
 Fort Duquesne, and drink a bumper to the 
 health of our King." 
 
 The young man urged his horse nearer to 
 the General's side. 
 
 " General," he said, bending toward him, 
 and speaking in a whisper, " there are danger- 
 ous coverts on yonder shore — fatal ravines 
 in the depths of yonder woods. Let me take 
 a band of picked men, and beat the covert and 
 explore the ravines, before the whole body of 
 our men cross the river." 
 
 There was an inexpressible earnestness in 
 his voice — a steady light in his grey eye. 
 
 The General uttered an ejaculation of impa- 
 tience : 
 
 "There is no danger,"he exclaimed, assum- 
 ing all the dignity of a General in the regular 
 service. " To-night we will sleep in Fort 
 Duquesne." 
 
 The young man did not reply ; and while 
 the bugle answered to the drum, and the 
 solemn grandeur of the forest was contrasted 
 by the flashing of the waters, General Brad- 
 
THE HUNTER OF THE ALLEGHANIES. 
 
 dock and Colonel Washington rode side by 
 side on the border of the Monongahela. 
 
 Twelve hundred men, some clad in scarlet, 
 others in blue — some lifting their glittering 
 bayonets into light — others girding their tried 
 rifles in sinewy arms, were marching there, 
 with their General in their midst, and the sad 
 eye of George Washington glancing from line 
 to line. 
 
 And the same breeze which fanned the pale 
 cheek of the young soldier, lifted the great 
 banner of England into light, and tossed its 
 gay emblazonry over plumes and bayonets of 
 the armed men. 
 
 It was a sight, mingling grandeur and beauty, 
 to see these soldiers emerge from the solemn 
 shadows, and take their way along the river's 
 verge ; but as the glittering array, parting into 
 three divisions, prepared to ford the river, while 
 the bugles rang with merrier peals, the scene 
 assumed a deeper interest, a stranger and wilder 
 grandeur. 
 
 Braddock, reining his white horse near the 
 shore, saw the first division, of three hundred 
 men, march into the waves in exact order, 
 while the banner fluttered in their van. The 
 face of the brave General was clad in smiles ; 
 his voice, heard in repeated commands, was 
 gay and boisterous. 
 
 And as the bayonets of the first division 
 glittered near the northern shore, the second 
 division, two hundred strong, left the southern 
 shore, with the roll of drum and the clang of 
 trumpet. Beautiful it was to see their burn- 
 ished arms, reflecting the blaze of noonday, 
 and firing the tremulous waves with masses of 
 dazzling light. 
 
 And as the General saw the first division 
 ascend the opposite bank, the second fording 
 the river ; he himself led on the third, — the 
 main body of his brave army, — and while 
 his white horse bent down to slake his thirst 
 in the cool waves, he beheld the artillery and 
 the baggage train, slowly urging onward, while 
 the thoughtful young soldier, rode in silence at 
 his side. 
 
 There was no smile upon the face of young, 
 AVashington. True, the sky was smiling be- 
 yond the opposite woods, but dismal ravines 
 were hidden beneath those groups of foliage ; 
 
 39 
 
 those bowers 
 
 deathly coverts lurked beneath 
 of summer verdure. 
 
 And yet it was a magnificent thing to see 
 this brave band parting into three divisions — 
 one flashing on yonder plain, the second 
 emerging from the waves, and the third toiling, 
 on in mid-stream — while from each division 
 trumpet answered trumpet, and the clattering 
 of arms, the tread of regular columns, the 
 neighing of war steeds, gave omen of a day of 
 glory, to be followed by a night of victorious 
 repose. 
 
 The grim hunter who stood upon the rocks 
 beheld it all. Saw the first division ascend 
 the hill, the second emerge upon the opposite 
 shore, and the third in the midst of the waters, 
 and then the animated face of Braddock, side 
 by side with the pale visage of Washington, for 
 a moment enchained his gaze. 
 
 He left the tree which had sheltered him ; 
 he descended from the rock, and drew near the 
 shore. A solitary soldier, whose red coat 
 shamed the hunter's grim array, lingered there, 
 the last to cross the river, the last man of the 
 array. His foot was in the water, when the 
 hand of the hunter pressed his shoulder. 
 
 " Drink, man, drink, from the river, before 
 you cross," cried the hunter to the astonished 
 soldier, " For there's a warm day before you, 
 and your next draught will be of blood." 
 
 And while the soldier, startled at the appear- 
 ance of the gaunt backwoodsman, shrunk from 
 his touch, the hunter clasped his rifle more 
 firmly in his knotted fingers, and dashed 
 through the river's waves. 
 
 We will see him again, when the fight goes 
 on most horribly under its pall of cloud ; the 
 rifle which he grasps is the fate of yonder 
 gallant army. 
 
 Meanwhile, Braddock, passing from the 
 river to the shore, — his eye drinking in, with 
 one quick glance, the blue sky, the encircling 
 woods, and the hillside clad in scarlet and steel, 
 — Braddock we say, the General of the army, 
 who had been trained to war on the parade 
 ground of Hyde Park, turned with a smile to 
 the young Virginian who rode near his 
 side. 
 
 " The sky is clear. Colonel, — to-night we 
 sleep in Fort Duquesne !" 
 
LEGEND EIGHTH. 
 
 THE BATTLE OF MONONGAHELA. 
 
 " General," said young Washington, with an 
 earnestness in his tone that would have 
 penetrated any heart, not stultified by self- 
 conceit, " with twelve men, I will traverse 
 yonder thickets, and defend our army from a 
 fatal surprise," 
 
 The young soldier as he spoke bent over 
 the neck of his bay steed, and his pale face, 
 shadowed in the forehead by his hat, was 
 touched in the cheeks by the noon-day sun. 
 
 Braddock smiled — 
 
 And at the moment, a column of smoke, rose 
 from the hill-side into the sky — there was a 
 sound as of one column of armed men recoil- 
 ing on another — from every side pealed the 
 rifle-shot mingled with that war-cry which 
 makes the blood sun cold even in a veteran's 
 veins. 
 
 The smile passed from Braddock's face. 
 
 Casting his gaze toward the hill-top, he 
 beheld his first division half lost to view amid 
 clouds and flame. He saw a sheeted blaze 
 pouring from the shadows of the trees. He 
 heard the cry which pealed from the wood, 
 from the ravine — echoing, thrilling, from 
 every side into the calm Heaven. 
 
 " The Indians and the French are upon us !" 
 he cried, turning his flushed face toward young 
 Washington. 
 
 At the same moment, the white plume which 
 crowned his chapeau was borne away by a 
 rifle shot. 
 
 " General," cried Washington, "there is but 
 one way to save our army from defeat and 
 massacre. Let our men fight under shelter, 
 and then every rock will be a fort, every tree 
 a castle — " 
 
 With a sneer on his colorless lip, the 
 General turned away. 
 
 " That is not the way for an Englishman to 
 fight," he said. 
 
 But as he spoke, the first division came 
 rushing in wild disorder from the top of the 
 hill — soon its panic-stricken soldiers com- 
 municated their panic to the second — and from 
 the second to the third, like lightning from one 
 cloud to another, that panic leapt, until amid 
 the clouds which rushed over the scene, nothing 
 was seen but broken ranks, falling back before 
 a deadly fire. 
 
 How tht voice of the battle awoke the 
 wilderness, and filled every nook of the forest 
 with ihe groans of dying men ! Dying afar 
 from country and from home, not in open fight, 
 or by a foe, whose eyes flashed in their faces is 
 his arm fell in the death-blow, but by the hand 
 of an enemy who crouched in the thicket, and 
 murdered securely from the shadow of a rock. 
 
 Behold the scene. This band of twelve 
 hundred men, scattered over the hill-side, are 
 shut in by a wall of fire. They advance and 
 they are dead. They retreat, and their path 
 is choked by corpses, which a moment since 
 were living men. They move to his side, and 
 death flashes upon them from yonder log On 
 to the other, and they are mown to pieces by 
 the fire from those collosal oaks. 
 
 And Braddock, hoarse with shouting and 
 blind with rage, sends the gallant men of his 
 staff whirling over the field. 
 
 "Let them form in regular order. Let them 
 fight like Englishmen, and the day is ours." 
 
 And to his side there comes a wounded 
 horse, bearing the young Virginian, whose 
 hunting shirt, is torn into ribbons by the bul- 
 lets of the foe. 
 
 "General," he cries, "it is not yet too late. 
 Let our men fight the enemy in their own way 
 (il) 
 
43 
 
 WASHINGTON AND HIS MEN. 
 
 — let them fight behind cover — and the day is 
 ours." 
 
 The words have not passed his lips, when 
 his horse reels under him, and sprinkles the 
 sod with blood. Then young Washington 
 starting from his dying horse, springs to his 
 feet, and awaits the answer of Braddock, his 
 pale face now flushing fast with the fever of 
 battle. 
 
 An oath escapes the lips of the Briton. 
 
 " No, sir. The men shall fight as English- 
 men or not at all !" he shouts, and dashes to 
 another part of the field. 
 
 Half-way down the hill-side, encircled by 
 the sudden clouds of battle, the young Virgin- 
 ian stood, one foot resting upon the flank of 
 his dying steed, whose glassy eye was once 
 upturned toward his master's face, and then 
 cold and dark forever. 
 
 His cheek was no longer pale — flashed 
 with the impulse of the fight, it gave a deeper 
 light to his eye, while his brow grew radiant 
 with a sombre delight. 
 
 It was in this moment, when the fire of the 
 irresistible foe, hurled panic and death into the 
 "exact'' order of the British army, that young 
 VVashhigton lingered for a moment near his 
 dead steed, and took in vvilh an eager glance 
 the confused details of the scene. 
 
 Clouds of white srnoke, tinged here and 
 there with a midnight fold, rolled over the hill- 
 side, and hung over the river, reaching from 
 forest to forest, above the waters, like a bridge 
 of death. 
 
 Among these clouds, through the intervals 
 made by the musquet flash or rifle blaze, the 
 British host, no longer joined in compact 
 lines, but broken into confused crowds, was 
 visible. From the hill-top and from the ra- 
 vines on either hand ; nay, from every log and 
 tree streamed the incessant blaze which strewed 
 the sod with dead and dying. And the calm 
 sky was choked by battle cloud — the awful 
 stillness of the virgin forest was succeeded by 
 the howl of demoniac carnage. 
 
 This was the scene which Washington be- 
 held as resting one foot upon the flank of his 
 dead horse, he cast a hurried glance around 
 him. 
 
 Braddock was there — upon his horse, which 
 panted and reared among heaps of dead — his 
 voice came hoarsely down the hill as he en- 
 
 deavored to rally his men into parade order, 
 and force them to fight this batde in " regular" 
 style. 
 
 Washington groaned in anguish. He had 
 warned the General of the ambush — had be- 
 sought him, almost with tears, to move forward 
 with caution — and now, his warnings disre- 
 garded, his prayers met with scorn, he beheld 
 twelve hundred men at the mercy of a hidden 
 foe. 
 
 " The day is not yet lost !" he cried, as a 
 hope brightened over his face. 
 
 " George !" said a gruff" voice, and a hard 
 hand was laid upon his own. 
 
 The giant hunter,* clad in his costume of 
 skins, half concealed by a hunting shirt, stood 
 before him. The blood trickled over his sun- 
 burnt cheek, but he grasped his good rifle in 
 one hand, while the other held the rein of a 
 frightened and riderless horse. 
 
 "George," said the hunter, with grufl^ fami- 
 liarity, " thou'rt the only man can save us to- 
 day. Here's a horse, boy — mount him, and 
 tell that fool of a Britisher, that we don't 
 fight French and Ingins in this 'ere style. Tell 
 lum that we can fight 'em in their own way, 
 but it is not our fashion to walk up to death 
 and swallow it, in this fool-hardy manner." 
 
 Not a word more was spoken. With a 
 bound Washington .sprang into the saddle — you 
 may see his form, yonder amid the mists of 
 battle — you may trace the fiery circles of his 
 sword above the lurid clouds. 
 
 The hunter gazed after him with a grim 
 smile, and then plunged into the smoke. 
 
 Near the top of the hill, his face purpled by 
 rage, Braddock mounted on a fresh horse — 
 two had fallen under him — was hurrying his 
 aids over the field, while the bullets whistled 
 like hail over his head, and about the long mane 
 of his war steed. 
 
 " General !" cried Washington, as he dashed 
 up to the side of the Briton — "once more let 
 me beseech you — change the order of this 
 conflict. It is folly, it is worse than folly, to 
 attempt to combat a hjdden enemy in this style. 
 Let the Provincials, at least, fight behind 
 cover" 
 
 In the very earnestness of the very moment 
 he leaned forward, his hunting shirt falling 
 
 • See Legend Seventh. 
 
THE BATTLE OF MONONOAHELA. 
 
 43 
 
 back over his chest, aiitl disclosing his blue 
 uniform. And at the very instant a button was 
 severed from his breast by a rifle ball. 
 
 Braddock did not even listen to the young- 
 Virginian. Maddened by the terrible havoc 
 going on every hand — inflated by the peculiar 
 self-complacency which possesses mere 
 military men, over all the world, he bade his 
 aid-de-camp join with him in the attempt to 
 rally the panic-stricken troops, to display them 
 once more in regular lines, and march them 
 " exactly" to death, according to the tactics of 
 the regular army. 
 
 But at the moment a scene occurred which 
 paled even Braddock's cheek. 
 
 A band of Virginians, some eighty men in 
 all, fought their way up the hill-side, turned a 
 fallen tree, whose huge trunk, some five feet in 
 diameter, ofl^ered a convenient breast-work. 
 From the thicket, beyond that tree, streamed 
 the blaze of Indian rifles, and yet those men, 
 led on by their Captain, the brave Waggoner, 
 fought steadily up the hill-side, their blue hunt- 
 ing frocks seen distinctly amid the clouds which 
 curled about the summit. 
 
 Their way is littered with dead ; they can- 
 not advance but the corpse of a Briton, clad in 
 scarlet, glares in their faces with stony eyes. 
 
 Braddock saw them on their fearful way — 
 Washington, too, reining his brown steed near 
 the General's side, held his breath as he 
 marked each step of their progress. 
 
 The short sword of Waggoner gleaming in 
 their van — the heroic Virginians dashed 
 onward, and, leaving three of their number in 
 their path, they reach the fallen tree — they 
 are dealing death among the foemen hidden by 
 yonder thicket, when — 
 
 Braddock's cheek grew livid — Washington 
 uttered a cry of despair ! 
 
 — When they are cut down, hewn into 
 fragments, crushed into one mangled heap of 
 living men, entangled among dead and dying. 
 Crushed not by a fire from their front, but by 
 a fire from the rear»mangled not by bullets of 
 the foe, but by the rifles of their comrades — 
 their brothers. 
 
 Captain Waggoner rose up from among the 
 heaps of dead, and shook his bloody knife in 
 the air, in witness of the fatal mismanagement 
 which had butchered thirty out of his eighty 
 
 Washington saw that sword quivering and 
 gleaming from the hill-top, and with a cold 
 sneer on his face, turned to the regular general. 
 "•You see, General," he said, "those of our 
 men who mean to fight, are massacred by your 
 regular soldiers !" 
 
 Ere Braddock could reply, his horse sunk 
 beneath him, pierced in the heart by a rifle 
 bullet. He rises from the dying steed — he 
 shouts for a fresh horse — he plunges madly 
 to and fro in the thickest of the battle. Does 
 he learn wisdom by experience, does he bid 
 his men to maintain the fight behind the trunks 
 oftliese colossal trees ? No — no! Determined 
 to enforce "regular tactics" and "correct 
 discipline" to the last moment, he speeds 
 wildly among his broken columns, never for a 
 moment pausing in his career, save to insult 
 some provincial band, who are holding battle 
 from the shelter of fallen trees. 
 
 There was a slender youth, clad in the 
 hunting frock, who loaded his rifle behind a 
 poplar tree which towered alone in the centre 
 of the field. His young breast protected by 
 this tree, he loaded in silence without even a 
 battle shout, and then, with lips compressed 
 and flashing eye, took his deadly aim, and saw 
 his distant foeman reel into death. 
 
 It was Braddock who marked this youth, 
 and reined his horse near the tree, pulling the 
 rein so suddenly, that the wild steed fell back 
 on his haunches. 
 
 " Coward !" cried he, turning his flushed 
 face towards the boy, " you dare not fight like 
 a man, but must skulk behind the shelter of a 
 tree " 
 
 He leans over the neck of his steed ; his 
 sword descends — the boy sinks on his knees, 
 and turns his disfigured face toward the British 
 General. 
 
 But Braddock was gone again. Urging his 
 horse over the dying and the dead, he hurries 
 to another part of the field, beholding every- 
 where the same spectacle — broken crowds of 
 scarlet-coated soldiers, firing upon each other 
 while the hidden foe hems them on every hand, 
 and mows them incessantly into the great 
 harvest of death. 
 
 Meanwhile, the boy by the solitary poplar, 
 beaten to the earth by Braddock's sword, 
 wipes the blood from his eyes, and looks 
 around with a vague glance. His senses are 
 
44 
 
 WASHINGTON AND HIS MEN. 
 
 whirling- in delirium ; a word of home comes 
 to his white lip, mingled with the syllables of 
 a sister's name. 
 
 But there is a giant form bending over him ; 
 a sunburnt face, streaked with blood, is gazing 
 into his own with dilating eyes. It is the 
 hunter,, clad in a hunting shirt, spotted with 
 blood, but with his good rifle in his brawny 
 arm. 
 
 His own arm becomes nerveless, his harsh 
 voice faint and broken, as he bends over the 
 bleeding boy. 
 
 "Arthur," he sa\s, smoothing the brown 
 locks of the boy aside from his bloody fore- 
 head — " who has done this ? Tell me, child 
 — tell me ;" — an oath escaped from between 
 his set teeth — " and if he's hidden behind a 
 hundred yards of French and Ingins I'll pay 
 him for it, afore this day's an hour older !" 
 
 The boy passed one hand over his eyes, and 
 wiped the blood away. 
 
 " Brother," he faintly said, and a smile of 
 recognition passed his pale face — " It was a 
 sword » * « « In Braddock's hand. * 
 * * * You see, he did not like it, because 
 I fought behind a tree." 
 
 The stern backwoodsman rose and clutched 
 his rifle. The cords of his bared neck began 
 to swell ; a hoarse cry came from his heaving 
 chest. 
 
 And then, while his young brother lay 
 bleeding at the foot of the poplar tree, the sun- 
 burnt man, with the great tears starting over 
 his tawny cheeks, began to load his rifle in 
 silence, but with much prudence and care. 
 
 " That ball is for him, Arthur — I shan't 
 fire this rifle until Ids heart lies afore it, and 
 that's a sartin thing!" 
 
 With these words he turned away, measur- 
 ing the sod with immense strides. He had 
 not gone ten paces, when a sudden thought 
 came over him. 
 
 " The boy will die," he muttered, and 
 turned away. 
 
 He drew near, but no voice greeted him this 
 time with the word " brother." Where he 
 had left a wounded form, bathed on the brow 
 with streaming blood, now was only a corpse, 
 propped against the tree, the rifle fallen from 
 its stiffened fingers, and the cold lips parting in 
 1 smile. 
 
 There was a stain upon his breast, near the 
 
 heart — a stray buUethad completed the work 
 begun by Braddock's sword. 
 
 It would have moved your heart to see the 
 rugged backwoodsman, gazing silently into the 
 face of the dead boy. Few words he said,, 
 but they were spoken with a heaving heart and 
 choking utterance. 
 
 " Arthur, my child, you staid at home with 
 the old folks in the settlements yonder, while 
 your brother went out to seek his fortin' 
 among b'ars and Ingins in the woods. A bold 
 fellow I've been — many a rough fight I've 
 had — but I don't want to see two days like 
 this in a life time. This mornin', when I 
 came to jine the army, I thought you was far 
 away — safe at home — it's the first time I've 
 seen your face for many a day. An' now 
 they're waitin' for you, — father and mother, 
 — and here you are, cut down like a dog, by 
 Braddock's sword." 
 
 A gleam of battle light reddened the pale 
 features of the dead boy. 
 
 The giant hunter turned away, grasping the 
 rifle which embodied the fate of the army, the 
 destiny of Braddock. He turned away, and 
 soon was lost among the clouds — after a 
 while we will behold him again. 
 
 For three hours the work of massacre went 
 on. Five horses were shot beneath the British 
 General as he hurried madly over the field, but 
 all his efforts were vain. His artillery and 
 infantry, mingled at first in sad disorder, were 
 soon mingled in one common havoc. For 
 three hours the blood shed on the hill-side 
 trickled down through the grass, and fell drop 
 by drop into the Monongahela. For three 
 hours that girdle of flame shut in the doomed 
 army, and when the third hour came, and the 
 sun, as if weary of slaughter, veiled his beams 
 in a lurid cloud, seven hundred men were 
 stretched upon the sod. 
 
 Seven hundred dead and dying, out of an 
 army of twelve hundred men, slain in a com- 
 bat of three hours, by a hidden foe! 
 
 Sixty officers, brave and gallant ; the flower 
 of Virginian chivaliT" and the pride of the reg- 
 ular army, were stretched among the slain. 
 
 And as the work of carnage goes on, where 
 is Washington, the youth of twenty-three 
 whose grey eye, already fires with precocious 
 experience? 
 
 Many and thrilling are the traditions which 
 
THE BATTLE OF MONOXGAHELA. 
 
 45 
 
 tne old soldiers of the field — the few survi- 
 vors of its carnage — have handed from the 
 history of their hearts down to our day. 
 
 Mounted on a dark bay he had crossed the 
 river, his pale cheek touched by a solitary 
 flush, but his grey eyes full of indefinable fore- 
 boding. 
 
 The bay horse had fallen dead beneath him 
 in the dawn of the fight. 
 
 Next, his commanding form, roused into all 
 its vigor by the frenzy of battle, was borne 
 over the field by a generous roan horse, v^^hose 
 eye dilated wtth the fury of the hour. 
 
 And the generous roan had fallen, too, un- 
 der his young rider, howling his last war cry as 
 his broken limbs crumbled beneath him. 
 
 But now, mounted upon a grey horse, his 
 forehead bared to the battle flash, and his uni- 
 form riddled by bullet-holes, Washington is 
 seen where the fire of the enemy illumines the 
 verge of the ravine ; where the Indian yell 
 mocks the anguish of the dying — where the 
 hill-top gleams like a funeral pyre, with bayo- 
 nets and rifle blaze. 
 
 Now confronting this havoc-stricken band 
 of regulars, hurling his horse before them, and 
 daring them to fly the field ; now rallying 
 yonder group of Continentals, and leading 
 them to the hopeless charge ; at one time, be- 
 side the infuriated Braddock, listening to his 
 mad commands, at another, whirling like an 
 arrow over the hill side, into the very vortex 
 of battle. 
 
 It was thus that the grey horse became 
 known to friend and foe ; it was amid the corses 
 of Braddoek's field beside the waters of the 
 Monongahela, that the name of Washington 
 was first stamped upon the hearts of his coun- 
 trymen, to ripen into full glory upon a broader 
 and holier field. 
 
 And wherever the young Virginian went, 
 whether skirting the borders of the wood, or 
 riding in the centre of the fight, there was an 
 eye that followed his career ; tliere was a rifle 
 levelled at his breast. 
 
 So, Braddock, wherever he rode, saw 
 through the mists of the scene, an eye watch- 
 ing his progress, a rifle levelled at his heart. 
 
 There was this difference between the two. 
 It was an Indian who tracked the steps of 
 Washington, and hung like a red image of 
 death in his path. Three times he had fired 
 
 — he was the most fatal marksman in all ^^is 
 tribe — and yet his balls had glanced from the 
 breast of Washington, like icicles from tlie 
 granite rock. 
 
 It was a gaunt form, almost gigantic in sta- 
 ture, that followed Braddock through the mazes 
 of the scene. A backwoodsman, with a torn 
 hunting frock, fluttering over his garment of 
 skins. But never once had he fired. Many 
 limes had the rifle rose, and the aim been ta- 
 ken, but there was no report from the deadly 
 tube. He seemed, this unknown man, to de- 
 lay his fire, as an epicure pauses long, before 
 he touches the richest viand of his feast. 
 
 At last there come a moment — the bloodi- 
 est and the darkest of all — near the close of 
 the third hour, when Washington reined his 
 grey horse near Braddoek's side. It was near 
 the summit of the hill — they were encircled 
 by corpses ; wherever their eyes turned was 
 the sight of a dying man, writhing in the last 
 agony, or a dead man's face, upturned to the 
 dark battle cloud. 
 
 Braddoek's jet black horse — it was the 
 sixth he had bestrode on this fatal day — hung 
 his head over the neck of Washington's grey 
 steed, as the riders conversed in hurried and 
 subdued tones. 
 
 Braddoek's gay uniform was sadly disfig- 
 ured; his face, livid under the eyes, was 
 stamped with a sullen despair. 
 
 Washington's visage, boldly marked against 
 the dark cloud — the forehead bare and the 
 eye gleaming — was radiant with a glorious 
 hope. 
 
 "General, I can savethe wreck of our force," 
 he said, in a pleading tone. "Permit me to 
 do it." 
 
 At this moment, from a log, some few paces 
 behind the back of Washington, rose the im- 
 age of a gaunt backwoodsman, with levelled 
 rifle, and sunburnt face, compressed by a 
 deadly resolve. 
 
 And from a rock, fifty yards from the back 
 of Braddock, an Indian started into view, his 
 rifle poised — his red plume waving over his 
 visage — the death aim taken, and the finger 
 on the trigger. 
 
 Does the backwoodsman level his rifle at 
 the heart of Washington ? 
 
 Does the Indian chief mean to slay the Gen- 
 eral in the gay scarlet uniform ? 
 
46 
 
 WASHINGTON AND HIS MEN. 
 
 No — no! Ten times the Indian has fired 
 at the heart of "Washington ; four bullets have 
 touched but not wounded him ; six have left 
 him scatheless. If the eleventh does not kill, 
 the Indian will fire no more, assured that the 
 Great Spirit panoplies the youth of tvi'enty- 
 three years. 
 
 And as for the Backwoodsman, this is his 
 first and last fire at the heart of Braddock. As 
 he loaded that rifle near the body of the dead 
 brother — he feels that its bullet is winged by 
 death. 
 
 And thus, the Indian behind Braddock, the 
 Backwoodsman at the back of Washington, 
 eacli take their fatal aim in the last hour of the 
 fatal fight. 
 
 " Permit me, General," said the tremulous 
 voice of Washington, " permit me to save the 
 the wreck of our gallant band ?" 
 
 There was a lull in the storm. Suddenly, 
 through the momentary stillness, two separate 
 sounds, from opposite sides, pealed on the air 
 like echo answering echo. Two rifle balls, 
 winged by death, hissed on their way. 
 
 One tore a fragment from the breast of 
 Washington's coat, but left the young hero 
 scatheless. 
 
 Braddock smiled as he marked the trace of 
 
 the bullet — and then fell on the neck of his 
 horse with a low groan. A bullet had 
 pierced his right arm, and buried itself in his 
 heart. 
 
 And the Indian chief fled into the thicket, 
 telling his red brothers how the Great Spirit 
 guarded the breast of the young man, mounted 
 on the grey horse — how steel could not 
 wound, nor bullet harm him — his heart was 
 as granite, his arm as iron, and his name des- 
 tined for great deeds in some future day. 
 
 And the gaunt hunter went slowly to the 
 foot of the poplar tree ; and bent near the dead 
 boy, and wiped the blood, still warm, from his 
 cold features, saying, amid his anguish, two 
 simple words — 
 
 "My Brother!" 
 
 And the young Virginian, mounted on the 
 grey steed, rallied the wreck of the gallant 
 army, and — while artillery and baggage were 
 left, with the corpses of the slain, to the foe — 
 saw them cross once more the river, whose 
 waves now blushed as if in very shame for 
 the carnage, and a rude tumbril rolled onward, 
 bearing amid the broken columns the mangled 
 form of Braddock, who, in the delirium of his 
 wounds, kept ever repeating a single name — 
 " Washington." 
 
LEGEND NINTH. 
 
 WASHINGTON IN LOVE. 
 
 There is a Legend which should never be 
 told, save in the calm of the summer twilight, 
 when the drops of the shower yet sparkle on 
 the leaves, and the setting sun shines out from 
 the west, while the east displays a rainbow on 
 its clouds. Then when the glory of the rainbow, 
 set upon the eastern cloud, seems to call to 
 the declining sun, shining in great splendor, 
 from the clouds that hang above his rays — 
 when there are drops like diamonds on every leaf 
 — when the air is fragrance — and one heaven- 
 like glimpse of sunset and rainbow, looks in 
 upon the world, ere the storm and blackness of 
 night comes over us — then let us tell a strange 
 Legend of the wild wood, in the days of old. 
 
 And yet I am afraid to tell this Legend. 
 It has lingered so long about my heart — been 
 in my dreams so long — come to me like mu- 
 sic that bursts over still waters through mid- 
 night stillness — that I am loth to write it down 
 in words. Afraid that my pen cannot do jus- 
 tice to its simple pathos; that its joy and its 
 tears, will find in my words no voice, worthy 
 of their intensity and love. 
 
 One summer evening when the sun was low, 
 an old man sat in front of his cabin door. 
 
 That cabin stood in a hollow or glen, which 
 extended through the virgin forest from north 
 to south, with a glimpse of blue sky at either 
 extremity. 
 
 It was a one-storied fabric, built of huge 
 logs, and hidden under the boughs of the great 
 trees. The roof, the timbers, everything but 
 the rugged door, was hidden by boughs and 
 vines. So that rugged door looked not so 
 much like the entrance of a cabin, as a mass 
 of rough boards, set in branches and leaves 
 
 Some gleams of fading sunlight came from 
 the skv above — from either extremity of the 
 
 glen — and spread a pool of light before the 
 old man's door. 
 
 Shut out from the world, three hundred 
 miles at least from white civilization, hidden in 
 this nook of the Alleghanies, this old man sat 
 on the side of a fallen log, and with light play- 
 ing around him — while the other part of the 
 glen was in shadow — he seemed thinking of 
 other days, of his youth, or of the graves of his 
 People. 
 
 It is no image of the imagination that I 
 would paint to you. An actual old man, en- 
 during, suffering — dying by inches — in the 
 awful solitude of the forest, in the year 1754. 
 
 A tall frame, gaunt and grim with age, and 
 looking like a skeleton, encased in hunting 
 shirt, leggins, and mocassins. A withered 
 face, browned by wind and sun, with the 
 sinews of the bared throat as prominent as 
 cords, and the wrinkled forehead contrasted with 
 scanty flakes of snow-white hair. His limbs 
 crossed, his large hands laid on his knees, the 
 old man gazes into the shadows of the forest, 
 and seems like the Pilgrim of the old story, 
 who sat him down one day, and waited pa- 
 tiently until Death came by. 
 
 Upon the log which supports the old man, 
 we behold a rifle, with stock of dark ma- 
 hogany, and mountings of silver. It is much 
 worn, indeed it has seen forty years of service. 
 
 For this aged man, now sitting alone in the 
 forest, presents to us a stern embodiment of 
 that wondrous race of men, who penetrated 
 the great forest of Pennsylvania, at least one 
 -hundred years in advance of their race, and 
 made the Indian mode of life their own, 
 gathering food with their rifles, and sometimes 
 feeling a great consciousness of God's Presence, 
 even in the midnight of the wilderness. 
 
48 
 
 WASHINGTON AND HIS MEN. 
 
 But the hunter is old now, very old ; ninety 
 years are upon him with their snows. 
 
 The hand that once was strong, is now 
 weak as any child's. The foot that once 
 scaled the mountain, and trod without fear, the 
 verge of dizzy chasms, now trembles in the 
 little journey from the log to the cabin door. 
 
 And he will die alone in the wilderness ! 
 
 From no wilderness of Red Brick, will his 
 soul escape to his God. But gloriously from 
 the dead solitudes of the wilderness, that soul 
 will leave the shattered frame — cold and stiff 
 upon the log — and wing its way through the 
 virgin air to Eternity. 
 
 "Ninety years!" the old man murmurs — 
 and is stiU again. It is a long time to contem- 
 plate ; longer to feel like ice in your veins, 
 and winter in your soul. 
 
 And from the cabin-door, there steals on tip- 
 toe a form, which by its very contrast, made 
 the old age of the Hunter more deeply vener- 
 able. 
 
 A young girl, clad in a coarse skirt which 
 reaches to the knee, her limbs covered with 
 leggings, her feet with mocassins. 
 
 And yet you never saw a form at once so 
 lithe and so blooming in its outlines — you 
 never heard a step so gentle and yet so active 
 — you never saw a brown face like hers, 
 illumined by so pure a soul, or shadowed by 
 chesnut hair so rich and flowing ! 
 
 She came behind the old man gently, and 
 laid her hands upon his white hairs, and 
 placed her smooth cheek against his withered 
 face. 
 
 It was like an embodied dream. 
 
 The withered cheek beside the clear brown 
 face of youth, the eyes dim with age, con- 
 trasted with e3'es large, black and brilliant ; 
 while hair telling of ninety winters swept 
 the chesnut curls which scarcely indicated 
 nineteen summers. 
 
 It was a touching sight — to see the old man 
 clasp her hands within his own, while his 
 uplifted eyes, brightened into life again, as he 
 perused the wild beauty of her face. 
 
 And as the evening hour deepened into 
 night, they conversed together, the aged man, 
 and the young maiden. Talked low and long 
 of that strange life in the forest — of the books 
 which cheered the lonely hours of the winter's 
 night — of one Book which opened a path, even 
 
 through the silence of eternal solitudes, from 
 the lone heart to its God. Of the Hunters, 
 rude men of the forest, who often came to the 
 cabin door with stores of corn and venison — 
 and now and then a garment or some luxury 
 of civilized life — for the old Hunter and his 
 grand-child, Marion. 
 
 "But grandfather, you have often promised 
 to tell me of my father and mother," said the 
 girl resting her hands upon his white hairs — 
 and of the Home in which they dwelt, far 
 away from the woods — near cities and gar- 
 dens, such as we see described in books. 1 
 am but young, grandfather, — but you have 
 passed many long years in the forest. Tell 
 me, I beseech yon, the story of your life, and 
 of my own." 
 
 A shadow fell upon the old Hunter's face. 
 
 " Lo, Marion," he said abruptly — "there 
 are histories my child, which should never be 
 told, save as confessions, made by white lips 
 in the hour of death. Your father — your 
 mother!" he shuddered, and shrunk away 
 from her hands and cast his eyes to the sod. 
 
 The girl stood silent and trembling, her 
 bosom swelling beneath its coarse vestment; 
 her large eyes full of light and tears. 
 
 The sunshine tinting the mazes of her ches- 
 nut hair, fell strong and vivid, upon his agitated 
 face. 
 
 " You thrust me from you" — said Marion 
 
 — " This is not well, grandfather. In all the 
 world I have no friend but you." 
 
 He extended his withered hand. 
 
 " Come hither" — his voice was tremulous 
 and broken — " sit by my side. Seventeen 
 years ago, I came to this place, and bore you 
 in my arms, — a babe whose eyes had hardly 
 seen one year of life. I reared this cabin for 
 you Marion — to you, and to your life, I de- 
 voted what remained of mine own. By day I 
 hunted among the hills, while you remained 
 alone within our cabin. And at night, beside 
 our fire, we sat together — you learned to read 
 
 — the great world of books was opened to 
 your eyes. And before my sight you blossomed 
 into life, until the old Hunter, would look into 
 your face at times, and wonder whether you 
 were not an Angel, sent by God, to cheer the 
 gloom of his cabin, and with your Presence 
 lighten up the lone forest glen." 
 

 
 
 
 
 5 '.-'' 
 
 
 --V^^J ^ -411= 
 
 (49) 
 
WASHINGTON IN LOVE. 
 
 51 
 
 The old man paused, and wiped the mois- 
 ture from his eyes. 
 
 " Ask me of this — of your own history — 
 of the blessing you have been to me, in my 
 hours of pain — and I will speak freely. Bat 
 rather wish me dead at your feet — rather pray 
 that the lightning may strike these grav hairs 
 — than to ask me to relate the History of the 
 Past. The Past ! That awful shadow which 
 rests upon my history, ere I brought you to 
 the glen, seventeen years ago !" 
 
 The old man rose abruptly, and with un- 
 steady but hurried steps sought the cabin door. 
 He disappeared beneath its shadow. 
 
 The girl remained near the fallen log, her 
 finger placed upon her moist red lip, her eyes, 
 burthened with tears, cast to the earth. 
 
 And while her bosom swelled with vague 
 thoughts — thoughts strange and mingled in 
 their hues — at once oppressive and lightened 
 by gleams of joy — she strayed absently over 
 the sward, toward the northern extremity of the 
 glen. 
 
 A wondrous life had been hers. Reared in 
 the lone forest, the Great World had come to 
 her, only as the memories of a half-forgotten 
 dream. 
 
 She had heard of a place, half a day's jour- 
 ney from /the cabin, called Fort Duquesne ; 
 once, with her grandfather, she had visited 
 "a settlement" far away in the woods, and 
 seen for the first time in her life, the face of a 
 white woman. Oftentime the red man had 
 paused at the cabin door, but not with a thought 
 of harm, for the old Hunter Abraham, dwelling 
 thus alone, with this beautiful child — was 
 sacred in his eyes — protected by the Great 
 Spirit, who sends good angels to guard withered 
 Age and brown-haired Orphanage. 
 
 Even the backwoodsman, who mingled the 
 vices of civilization and the hardy virtues of 
 savage life, respected the Home of the old 
 man, and looked upon the beautiful Orphan as 
 a sacred thing. 
 
 Thoughts and memories, like these, glided 
 into the mind of Marion, as she wandered over 
 the sward, toward the northern extremity of 
 the glen. 
 
 At last, she started back with affright— for 
 she advanced to the brow of a crag— one step 
 farther — and she would have been dashed to 
 pieces, in the abyss, which yawned below. 
 
 That crag, terminating the glade, commanded 
 a wide horizon to the north and west. 
 
 A horizon of mountains, framing immense 
 masses of forests, through whose depths of 
 summer green, two winding rivers shone like 
 liquid silver in the setting sun. 
 
 Marion looked below and shuddered. From 
 the chasm beneath great trees arose, but a 
 hundred feet of granite intervenes between their 
 summit and the summit of the rock. 
 
 To the west she looked, and the flush of 
 sunset, tinged her brown cheeks and chesnut 
 hair, with light and rapture. 
 
 A blue canopy, with only one cloud — and 
 that was in the path of sunset, unfolding its 
 white breast, to the gaze of the dying Day. 
 
 But from afar — over the waste of woods, 
 and near where the mingling rivers shone — 
 came glimpses of a vision, which stirred the 
 maiden's heart with awe and wonder. 
 
 Glimpses of armed men, whose burnished 
 weapons, shone in the sunlight, like fire-flies 
 through the gloom of night. Armed men, in 
 ranks and columns, marching under banners, 
 with horsemen riding in their midst. Now 
 she saw them slowly ascend a hill, which rose 
 suddenly from the forest — soon they were lost 
 to sight — but at length came into view again, 
 dotting the slope of a wide meadow, with points 
 of dazzling light. 
 
 On the brow of the crag, clinging with one 
 hand to a sapling, whose leaves swept her dark 
 hair, while the other shrouded her eyes from 
 the sun, the Maiden stood gazing with inde- 
 finable wonder, on the march of the unknown 
 army. 
 
 Not until the sun went down, and darkness 
 wrapt the landscape, and the chill mist, wan- 
 dered a like ghostly form, through the glen, and 
 before the cabin door, did the forest girl retreat 
 from the verge of the crag. 
 
 Within the cabin, a pine-torch, inserted in a 
 crevice of the logs, above the hearth, flung a 
 ruddy light. 
 
 The cabin was but one spacious room, with 
 two couches, of deer-skin, standing in opposite 
 corners — walls of log — rudely constructed 
 hearth — and floor as rude, sprinkled with pine 
 branches and fragrant moss. 
 
 Their evening meal was past, and a slight 
 fire burned on the hearth, for the atmosphere 
 
5-2 
 
 WASHINGTON AND HIS MEN. 
 
 of the night — although it was a mid-summer 
 night — was damp and chill. 
 
 The old man was seated on his bench, lean- 
 ing his tslbows on his knees, and resting his 
 cheeks \i his hands ; his grand-child stood 
 near a shelf, her lifted hand grasping a book, 
 and her face turned over her shoulder, towards 
 his motionless form. 
 
 The light played in flashes over the moss- 
 covered floor, and tinted with radiance the 
 dark logsJ^ieh formed the cabin floor. 
 
 " But vraen I die," said the old man, as if 
 thinking filoud — "And there are not many- 
 days left to me — when I die, what will be- 
 come of — you ?" 
 
 The girl was about to answer, when the 
 door opened with a crash, and a harsh voice 
 was heard — 
 
 " Why I'll take keer of her, old Abr'am. I 
 promise you that ! I think o' settlin' in these 
 clearin's somewhere, and I'd jist like to have 
 a little woman o' that shape and complexion, 
 fur my cabin. " 
 
 The old man knew the voice ; the sound of 
 its accents seemed to penetrate his blood. He 
 started to his feet, and fell back again with a 
 shudder. 
 
 The arm of the girl lifted to reach the book, 
 was palsied in the action — her face, turned 
 over her shoulder, grew deathly pale. 
 
 Meanwhile the intruder advanced to the cen- 
 tre of the floor, and stood in the glow of the 
 hearth-side. 
 
 Picture to yourself, a form six feet and more 
 in height, with long limbs, lean bony arms, 
 narrow shoulders and shrunken chest, and a 
 thin scraggy neck, supporting a small head, 
 covered with masses of red hair. A face with 
 harshly moulded features, small eyes deep 
 sunken, prominent nose and bulging brow. A 
 costume made of fragments of military uniform, 
 and backwoodsman's attire — a short green 
 coat laced with gold, breeches of deer-skin, 
 boots of dark leather, a belt, powder-horn, and 
 spurs. One hand resting on a rifle, the other 
 grasping the hilt of a hunting knife. 
 
 Such was the -intruder ; a man notorious 
 among white and red men — among British 
 and French, as a dead shot and a reckless 
 bravo. In the course of a few years he had 
 been seen fighting on all sides ; now at the 
 head of a band of Indians ; now in the ranks 
 
 of -the Provincial soldiers ; and a year before 
 at the battle of the Great Meadows, he ha( 
 been prominent among the French, who at 
 tacked the little band of young Washington. 
 
 His real name, tradition tells us, was Michael 
 Burke ; but the cognomen by which he was 
 named among the Indians, effaced his proper 
 designation. More in regard to his disposition 
 and the color of his hair, than to any rule of 
 natural philosophy — we presume — he was 
 called simply — 
 
 " The Red Wolf !" 
 
 And it was this title shrieking from the lips 
 of the girl, and murmured by the old man, 
 which elicited a grim smile from the bravo 
 himself. 
 
 As he stood gazing into the fire, old Abraham 
 made a quick and stealthy sign to his grand- 
 child. She saw and comprehended that brief 
 gesture. It meant — 
 
 " Bring me my rifle !" 
 
 The rifle stood beneath the shelves on which 
 her books were placed. She seized it, was 
 darting forward, when the Red Wolf wheeled 
 suddenly round, and interpo'sed his ungainly 
 form, between the girl and her grandfather. 
 
 " Ra-a-ly it makes me laugh !" he cried, de- 
 vouring the beauty of that young face, with a 
 coarse stare — "Why the gal's a-goin' to bat- 
 tle surely ! Which way my purty robin, with 
 that shootin' iron ? You look so nice, and so 
 bright about the eyes, that I think I must e'en 
 have a kiss" — 
 
 He advanced — the girl, frightened and pale, 
 sank back, still grasping the rifle. 
 
 " Marion !" the old man cried — " Do not 
 let go the rifle. Remember — there is neither 
 mercy nor humanity about this man. Keep 
 the rifle girl, and — " 
 
 The old Hunter started to his feet, and 
 stood behind the bravo, his features animated 
 by an intensity of hatred and disgust. 
 
 "Oh, yer thar, are ye'!" — and the Red 
 Wolf turned his head over his shoulder, and 
 saluted the old man with a hideous grin — "I 
 remember you last in the fight of the Great 
 Meadows. I do. For I aimed at your top- 
 knot no less than ten times. I did. In a 
 minnit you and I — will have a talk together, 
 but now — " 
 
 He turned toward the girl, uttering an oath. 
 
 The young maiden still leaned for support 
 
WASHINGTON IN LOVE. 
 
 against the wall, clutching the rifle with her 
 hands, but between the bravo and the girl, there 
 stood a young man in the garb of a Provincial 
 soldier, whose remarkable free and command- 
 lug form, enchained at oncie the eyes of Marion 
 
 — of Abraham — and " the Red Wolf." 
 And this young man, standing so calmly, 
 
 between the bravo and the girl, his chapeau in 
 one hand, a pistol in the other, simply ex- 
 claimed : 
 
 " You had better retire Michael. The sol- 
 diers are waiting for you at the foot of the glen. 
 Go ! And tell them to push on without delay 
 
 — I will join them on the road." 
 And the Red Wolf, without a word, slunk 
 
 to the cabin door and was gone. 
 
 No words can picture the surprise mani- 
 fested on the faces of the old man and his 
 child. With a simultaneous glance they re- 
 marked the costume and appearance of the 
 stranger. 
 
 He was clad in a blue coat, trimmed with 
 silver lace ; he wore military boots, a belt, 
 sword and pistols. His countenance, very 
 pale, and marked by features at once regular, 
 intellectual, and fuU of calm dignity, was 
 lighted by large grey eyes. 
 
 "Why Abr' am don't you -know me. Forgot- 
 ten so soon ! Only a year ago you fought by 
 my side, in -the battle of the Meadows — have 
 I passed from your memory already?" 
 
 And the young man advanced and extended 
 his hand — the old man grasped it warmly — 
 
 " Colonel 1" he ejaculated, " Surely God has 
 sent you hither 1" 
 
 " I am on my way to join the main body of 
 the army under Braddock. You know our 
 destination — Fort Duquesne ! Two weeks 
 ago I was left with the rear, prostrated by a 
 fever, from which I am only half recovered. 
 A few moments since passing near your cabin, 
 I was attracted by the sound of voices ; I tied 
 my horse before the door, and to my astonish- 
 ment found the ' Red Wolf ' here — " 
 
 " But will he not return ?" gasped the old 
 man — " Or plan some act of treachery — " 
 
 " No danger, Abr'am," returned the young 
 man with a smile — " He is true to the side 
 that pays best. Last year he was French — 
 they paid best. Now he is retained by our 
 General, as Guide, Spy, and so forth. He 
 leads our rear division through the woods. | wild forest, alone with a dying old man ! 
 
 53 
 
 He will be faithful so long as there is a purse 
 before him, and a loaded pistol at his tem- 
 ple." 
 
 A harsh sound was heard — the young man 
 turned, and for the first time seemed conscious 
 of the presence of the forest girl. The rifle, 
 had fallen from her grasp. She leaned for 
 support against the wall, her arms folded, and 
 her cheek pale and red by turns. 
 
 " My grand-child '." said the old man, and 
 he repeated the name of the young officer. 
 
 As the girl advanced, and took the proffered 
 hand of the Colonel, and in her simple way 
 bade him welcome to that forest home, he gazed 
 upon her face — into her eyes — with a long 
 and absent glance. A glance which mingled 
 admiration and reverence. Admiration for a 
 face and form so beautiful, reverence for a sou! 
 so chaste and pure, as that which lighted her 
 large eyes. 
 
 And the girl gazed without shame upon the 
 noble form and handsome face of the young 
 officer, and when she spoke, her voice was 
 low, musical,, and full of delicate intonations, 
 her language the speech of a pure and educated 
 woman. 
 
 For a while the young man gazed in her 
 face — long, intendy — while the thought half 
 escaped his lips — 
 
 "So beautiful, and in this forest, by the 
 hearth of a dying old man !" 
 
 His reverie was broken by the old man's 
 voice — 
 
 " Colonel you will stay with us to-night. 
 You are not yet sufiiciently strong to bear the 
 fatigues of the march. You will remain — 
 will you not, and pursue your way to- 
 morrow ?" 
 
 The young man gazed around the cabin 
 with a smile — 
 
 " I am afraid the person of a rude soldier 
 like myself, might inconvenience you. Thanks 
 friend Abr'am for your kind offer, but I must 
 be on my way to-night. There will be a 
 battle before many days, and I would not, for 
 any consideration, be absent from its danger 
 and glory." 
 
 And while he spoke to the old man, his 
 eyes were fixed upon the girl, his heart pos- 
 sessed by an overwhelming wonder — 
 
 " This beautiful maiden, dwelling in the 
 
54 
 
 There is a mystery here. Last year I saw him 
 at the battle ; ah ! I remember — he spoke of 
 a grand-child then, who awaited his return 
 home. And when he dies, she will be left 
 alone ! An Orphan — young — friendless — 
 cast upon the mercy of the world !" 
 
 This Thought did not rise to his lips, but it 
 absorbed his soul. The light of the torch dis- 
 closed a sight by no means without interest or 
 beauty. 
 
 These young forms, the one embodying all 
 that is pure in maidenhood — the other, the 
 courage and thought of young manhood — 
 while the old man, with withered frame and 
 white hairs, looked like an image of old Time, 
 gazing upon Youth and Hope. 
 
 " In an hour," said the Colonel, " I must be 
 on my way — " 
 
 The old Hunter swept aside the hide of a 
 buffaJo, which hung along one side of the 
 cabin. An aperture like a doorway was dis- 
 closed. Taking the pine knot in his hand, 
 Abraham exclaimed — 
 
 " Come hither, my friend. Let me converse 
 with you alone." 
 
 And followed by the young Colonel, he lead 
 the way through the passage, into a large 
 chamber, with high walls and lofty ceiling. 
 The floor, the walls, the ceiling, were white as 
 Parian marble. And as the old man stood be- 
 neath the lofty arch, and raised the glaring 
 torch, its light fell upon the most beautiful 
 flowers and fruit — all fashioned out of stone 
 by the hand of nature — looking like the 
 ghosts of dead lilies and roses. 
 
 The young officer stood motionless and 
 wonder-stricken. 
 
 "Do not wonder," said old Abraham — 
 "Our cabin is built on the side of a hill, and 
 before the mouth of the Great Cavern, which 
 pierces the womb of the mountain. Colonel 
 I have brought you here, so that you may 
 listen to the words of a dying man." 
 
 There was a solemnity, a sadness, in the old 
 man's tone, which pierced the heart. 
 
 " I will listen," murmured the Colonel. 
 
 " Li a few days — perchance — in a few 
 hours, I will be dead. To you I will confide 
 a secret which I never entrusted to living man. 
 Listen to a fatal Revelation — " 
 
 And as the young officer sank upon a seat 
 of stone, with that solemn Chapel of Nature 
 
 WASHINGTON AND HIS MEN. 
 
 all around him, the old man's voice broke the 
 stillness, and awoke the echoes of the place. 
 
 For an hour, Marion, seated near the fire, 
 awaited the re-appearance of Abraham and the 
 young stranger. We will not picture her 
 thoughts, but her large bright eye was forming 
 air-castles among the coals which glared on the 
 hearth ; her bosom rose and fell ; maybe a 
 vision of the old man, dead, and his grand- 
 child alone in the world, passed over her soul. 
 
 And even amid her waking dreams, she 
 heard the tones of the old man, breaking low < 
 and murmuring from the Cavern Chapel. 
 
 The hour passed, the old man and the 
 Colonel came forth from the Cavern Chapel, 
 and Marion, looking up, saw that the face of 
 the young man was very pale — that there 
 were tears in his eyes. 
 
 " Good night, my friends — " his voice was 
 hurried and broken — " Abraham I have pro- 
 mised, and will obey. When the Battle is 
 over — if God spares my life — I will come 
 this way on my return home, and attend to 
 your last request." 
 
 He took the hand of Marion — pressed it 
 warmly — gazed upon her with a look which 
 filled her with wonder — then grasped the 
 hand of the old Hunter, and passed rapidly to 
 the door. 
 
 But even on the threshold he staggered and 
 fell. 
 
 It is no fiction that we are writing ; weak- 
 ened by disease, worn down by fatigue — every 
 faculty of his soul roused into action by the 
 Revelation of the old man — the strength of 
 the young soldier gave way at last, and like a 
 dead man he fell to the floor. 
 
 When they raised him from the floor, the 
 forest girl and the old man together, he was 
 chilled and fevered by turns ; his eye un- 
 naturally bright and vacant, his cheek now 
 pale as a shroud, and now fired as with a 
 living flame. 
 
 And all the night long, extended upon the 
 old man's couch, he struggled with the mad- 
 ness of fever, now telling them to bring his 
 horse, so that he might ride to battle — now 
 starting up with livid lips and glaring eyes, 
 and shouting forth the words of the battle 
 charge — and sinking at last into a half dreamy 
 
WASHINGTON IN LOVE. 
 
 55 
 
 slumber, with the name of " Marion !" on his 
 lips. 
 
 And sometimes the young girl, watohing by 
 his couch — cooling his fevered brow with her 
 hand — shuddered as she heard the words of 
 the old man's " Revelation" on the tongue of 
 the delirious soldier. 
 
 Morning came ; still the sick man was 
 racked by pain and tortured by delirium. 
 And while the old man prayed by his bed, the 
 young girl wandered forth and gathered certain 
 plants, commended by the rude Indian's lore, 
 and prepared a potion, which gave sleep — 
 oblivion — to the young Virginian. 
 
 The day wore slowly away, and the horse 
 of the soldier, tied to a tree and fed by the old 
 man, neighed wildly, as if to arouse his mas- 
 ter, and call him from his bed l> the scenes of 
 the battle. 
 
 Towards evening the sick man unclosed his 
 eyes. Was it a Dream ? — the beautiful form 
 that hovered near his bed ? A glimpse of sun- 
 light stole through the op.,ned door, and 
 illumined the beautiful face of the Watcher — 
 the sad, tender eyes, centred upon the pale 
 brow of the soldier — the young face, bloom- 
 ing with youth, and shadowed by luxuriant 
 chesnut hair. 
 
 For a long while the sick man did not speak. 
 He feared to break tlie spell which held the 
 beautiful Dream so near his bedside. 
 
 At last endeavouring to recall his wandering 
 thoughts, he asked — 
 
 " How long have I been ill ?" 
 
 The maiden started at the sound of his 
 voice — 
 
 " Since last night," she answered, remark- 
 ing with undisguised joy, the healthy bright- 
 ness of the speaker's eyp. 
 
 " It is then the Eighth of July — " he cried, 
 with an accent of the deepest regret — ■' And I 
 am here, when the army are winning laurels. 
 Ah ! the Spy has left my soldiers in ignorance 
 of my visit to this place ; they have gone on 
 without me — they are now with Braddock. 
 Abr'am my friend, I must away !" 
 
 The old man answered his call ; while the 
 girl stood apart, they conversed together. 
 
 He rose, and although still weak, discovered 
 that he was strong enough to mount his horse. 
 He hastily resumed his coat, his sword and 
 pistols, and stood ready to depart. 
 
 " Farewell, Marion !" he said, extending his 
 hand, " In my delirium I dreamed of a Good 
 Angel, watching by my bed, and placing her 
 hand upon my brow. It is a Dream no longer, 
 for I am awake, and the Good Angel is still 
 before me. Farewell! When the Battle is 
 over and Fort Duquesne won, I will see you 
 again." 
 
 He hastened to the door ; his horse, a dark 
 bay, stood pawing the earth, beneath an oaken 
 tree. 
 
 He was in the saddle, his tall form, looking 
 magnificent in the light of the setting sun ; his 
 cheek still pale, but his eye bright and flashing. 
 
 And the white-haired man stood near the 
 stirrup, and at his back came the brown-haired 
 girl, her large eyes raised to the warrior's face. 
 
 " How far is it to the confluence of the 
 the Monongahela and the Yohiogeny ? Brad- 
 dock was to encamp there the night before he 
 advanced upon Fort Duquesne." 
 
 The old Hunter gave him directions, in re- 
 lation to a short path through the wilderness — 
 
 " You will reach it ere midnight. Colonel — 
 God go with you," he said. 
 
 The soldier ere he put spur to his steed, 
 bent over the saddle, and fixing his gaze upon 
 the face of the maiden, lifted her hand to his 
 lips. 
 
 " Farewell !" he said, and his steed bounded 
 down the glen. The tall form of the rider rose 
 between the gaze and the sky, flushed by the 
 declining day. 
 
 The maiden stood near the white-haired 
 man, following that warrior form with her 
 eyes, until the horse and the rider went to- 
 gether into the shadows. 
 
 "He will return when the battle is over," 
 said Marion, like one awakening from a 
 dream. 
 
 That night, where the waters of the two 
 rivers mingle, Braddock standing among the 
 veterans of his host, pressed the young soldier 
 by the hand, and joyfully exclaimed — 
 
 " Welcome, Washington ! We are only 
 fifteen miles from Fort Duquesne — we will 
 rest there to-morrow !" 
 
 To-morrow ! 
 
 The battle was over. 
 
 It was the Tenth of July, 1754, and seven 
 
WASHINGTON AND HIS MEN. 
 
 hundred corses, lay beneath the scalping knife, 
 near the banks of the Monongahela. 
 
 The French and Indians were holding festi- 
 val among the dead ; the white man had his 
 dance and his wine, and the red man, his har- 
 vest of scalps — all among the dead of Brad- 
 dock's field. 
 
 And through the wilderness, over the very 
 path where an army eager for battle, sure of 
 victory, passed two days before, fled the dis- 
 mayed wreck of twelve hundred warriors. 
 
 A young soldier, stood on a crag, which 
 overlooked a valley, and commanded a glimpse 
 of the distant Monongahela. Two horses had 
 fallen under him in the battle ; the third had 
 died of fatigue in the terrible flight ; and the 
 fourth — a white horse, worthy of his rider — 
 was tied to a neighbouring tree. 
 
 This soldier standing upon a crag, with arms 
 folded, and lip pressed betvveen his teeth, 
 looked down — and saw the wreck of Brad- 
 dock's army whirl beneath him, like a torrent 
 suddenly undammed. 
 
 Men without arms, men faint with wounds, 
 men dying on the road, and stretching their 
 hands in vain to their brothers — this was part 
 of the sight which he saw. 
 
 But the full terror, and confusion and panic 
 of that flight, who can paint ? 
 
 And there borne in a tumbril, which was 
 rudely jolted by the irregularities of the road, 
 Braddock, the General, was slowly dying, de- 
 voured at once by pain and remorse. 
 
 His folly had sacrificed seven hundred men. 
 
 No wonder that the brow of the young sol- 
 dier darkened, no wonder that his bosom 
 heaved, as he saw this miserable wreck of an 
 army, whirl by, without purpose or aim, save 
 to place mountains and rivers between its living 
 and the fatal field on which its dead men lay. 
 
 The blue uniform of the young soldier was 
 marked by bullets and stained with blood. He 
 liad dared the fiercest peril, shared the darkest 
 danger of the fight — his ears were filled even 
 now with the shrieks of the dying. 
 
 But in the fight the Face of a beautiful Girl 
 had been near him — hovering now on the 
 white mist — now smiling from the dark cloud. 
 Her Memory had never forsaken his heart. 
 And the story of her life, and of the life of her 
 People — told by tlie old Hunter in the Cavern 
 Chapel — had made its impression on his soul. 
 
 " When the Battle is over I will return !" 
 
 And now he was returning — from no victo- 
 rious field — from the Acaldema of the West — 
 the glen in which the Hunter's cabin stood 
 was not one hundred yards from the crag ; he 
 had stolen from the retreating array for a brief 
 hour; he would visit the cabin, and join his 
 comrades near midnight. 
 
 Leaving his horse by the tree, he hurried 
 down the rock, he drew near the glen. 
 
 How visions of the future rose before him in 
 that hurried and lonely walk ! 
 
 He was young ; he was brave ; but twenty- 
 three years old, he had already won a name ot 
 which the oldest warrior might be proud. 
 
 And even from the desolation of the wilder- 
 ness, he might gather a wild flower to bless 
 with its fragrance, his heart, his home. 
 
 This forest girl, Marion, dwelling in the 
 wdlderness — alone with her grandsire — a 
 beautiful form, an angel face, linked with an 
 angel soul ! Should she hold no influence on 
 his life ? Where in all the world could he find 
 a heart so true, a soul so pure and virginal ? 
 
 Pardon the young man for these wild reve- 
 ries — but he was young — the blood of early 
 manhood was in his veins — the dreams oi 
 youth still blossomed about his heart. 
 
 " She is so beautiful," he thought, as he 
 hurried along — " When the old man is dead, 
 she will be left alone in the world. Can I 
 leave her alone in the wilderness — can I de- 
 sert purity and tenderness, like hers, in the 
 hour of its loneliness ? Ah — even now, it 
 may be, she weeps over the corse of her only 
 friend — " 
 
 With that thought he hurried on. 
 
 Before him, a tall rock rose in the sun — on 
 the other side of the rock lay the glen which 
 embosomed the cabin — the Home of Marion, 
 the forest girl. 
 
 " Ah — they are standing at the door, the 
 old man and the beautiful girl. I will behold 
 them as I stand at the foot of the glen. They 
 await me. They have looked for my coming 
 all day long." 
 
 Thoughts like these crowded upon him; 
 his blood began to bound ; he looked toward 
 the rock, and hastened onward. 
 
 He reached the rock, passed it, and looked 
 up the mountain glade ! 
 
 It was bathed in sunbeams on one side; 
 
o 
 o 
 
 (5T) 
 
WASHINGTON IN LOVE. 
 
 59 
 
 wrapt in shadow on the other ; he stood at its 
 southern extremity, and from its northern ter- 
 mination caught a glimpse of the smiling sky. 
 
 But the cabin was not visible, for it stood 
 among .the trees, buried — all save the rugged 
 door — by boughs and vines. Neither did he 
 behold the image of the old man, with the 
 dark-eyed girl standing near. 
 
 A hundred paces lay between him and the 
 cabin. 
 
 Do not smile at his violent agitation ; do not 
 chide him for his wild enthusiasm, for the 
 Face of the girl is present with him now, as 
 he hurries on — he hears her voice as he heard 
 it in the delirium of fever — he resolves to 
 bear her from this forest dell, and show the 
 gay world what beautiful flowers are reared 
 by God, even in the howling wilderness. 
 
 He nears the cabin door — 
 
 And you will remember that the young 
 Virginian, in mere personal appearance, was 
 worthy of the proudest woman's love. He was 
 tall — well-proportioned — his face moulded 
 not so much after the " classic style," but 
 moulded — as a face should be, which is in- 
 tended to express the manhood of a chivalric 
 heart. 
 
 He stands at last before the cabin door. 
 Framed in flowers, the face of the young girl 
 looks forth from the shadows — the withered 
 hands of the old man are extended in the act 
 of blessing him. No — No. 
 
 The flowers before that door are withered. 
 Blasted the flowers, the leaves — the very 
 boughs are green no longer, but stripped of 
 life, they fling their black limbs to the light. 
 
 Where the cabin stood two days ago, now is 
 only a pile of sightless and smoking embers ! 
 
 It was a moment, such as do not occur to any 
 man twice in a lifetime. 
 
 He stood palsied, gazing upon the ruins and 
 the blackness, looking for some traces of a 
 living being — but unable to speak or move. 
 
 " Marion !" he said in a broken voice. 
 
 No answer came. A stillness like midnight 
 was upon the place. 
 
 The young soldier advanced — blackness 
 and ashes, nothing but ruins wherever .he 
 turned. 
 
 The mouth of the cavern was before him. 
 The memory of the old man's Revelation came 
 back at the sight; he passed into the Chapel, 
 and saw the sunshine stealing over those 
 flowers and fruits of gold. But the Chapel 
 was vacant — no sound or trace of humanity. 
 It was like a tomb. 
 
 Deeper into the cavern the young man 
 passed — while he was gone, the night came 
 down — and when he came forth, his face 
 looked hollow, ghastly by the light of the rising 
 moon. 
 
 There was a single tress of brown hair 
 wound about the clenched finger of his right 
 hand. 
 
 He hurried away, he mounted his horse, he 
 joined the retreating army. But never from 
 his lips passed a word concerning the fate of 
 the old man or his child. 
 
 But when America became a nation, there 
 was in the cabinet of the President a sheet of 
 time-worn paper, encircling a faded tress of 
 hair, and beariag the superscription — " Ma- 
 rion, July 11th, 1754." That was the only 
 record left on earth of the 
 
 FIRST LOVE or WASHINGTON. 
 
LEGEND TENTH, 
 
 THE DEATH OF BRADDOCK. 
 
 Braddock was dying. 
 
 At the foot of a sycamore, whose white 
 trunk, glared like a ghost among the dark pines, 
 was stretched all that remaine'd of the brave 
 General, who, five days before, had gone forth 
 so proudly to gather laurels from the wild hills 
 of Monongahela. 
 
 His throat was bare ; his face pale as , a 
 shroud, and imbued with the apathy of despair, 
 that neither hopes nor fears, was illumined by 
 eyes that shone more brightly as the night of 
 death came on. Sometimes he lifted his- hand 
 to the fatal wound near his heart ; sometimes 
 he rolled his eyes around the faces of the dis- 
 mayed spectators, and then, turning his own 
 face to the shadows, he bit his nether lip, and 
 longed for death. 
 
 It was in a glen, whose northern side was 
 bathed in sunlight; while the southern side 
 was wrapt in shadow. 
 
 A glen, strewn with broken arms and frag- 
 ments of artillery, with here and there the 
 body of a wounded man. Grov/ds of panic- 
 stricken men were scattered in groups over the 
 sward, talking with each other in low tones, 
 and speaking with livid lips the name of the 
 fatal massacre — Monongahela. 
 
 It was the fourth day of their flight from that 
 terrible field. For four days and nights they 
 had pursued their way, stricken with panic, 
 and only nerved to exertion by the example 
 of their leader, a Virginian youth of twenty- 
 three; and as they bore the body of their 
 wounded General, now in a rude tumbril, 
 now on horseback, and last of all in their 
 arms. 
 
 But five days ago he had gone forth so 
 proudly on his war horse, bearing the com- 
 mission of his king ; and now, at the foot of a 
 
 sycamore, alone in the dark wilderness, he was 
 looking death in the face. 
 
 While a group of soldiers, whose tattered 
 uniforms and scarred faces bore traces of the 
 fight, gathered near hira, and watched his 
 dying face, the valley or glen, only seven miles 
 from Fort Necessity, became the theatre of a 
 strange and varied scene. 
 
 These soldiers had paused only for an hour, 
 — paused that Braddock might die — but still 
 possessed by the panic which had maddened 
 them since the fatal day, they gave their bag- 
 gage to the flames, buried their cannon in the 
 bushes or underneath the sod, and stood pant- 
 ing for the moment when they might resume 
 their flight. 
 
 Therefore the glen was dotted by groups of 
 affrighted soldiers, who talked in low tones with 
 each other ; therefore, through the shadows of 
 the woods arose pyramids of flame ; therefore, 
 no man thought of meat or drink or repose. 
 
 The only thought was this — When Brad- 
 dock is dead and buried we will Jly as we 
 have fled, these four days and nights. 
 
 The day was fast dechning. 
 
 Only two men, in that dreary valley, seemed 
 to keep firm hearts within their breasts : — 
 The man who was dying at the foot of the 
 sycamore. 
 
 — The young Virginian who stood near 
 him, watching his agony with fearful eyes. 
 
 The General reached forth his clammy hand : 
 
 "George," he said, and his voice was husky 
 with death, " Let all but you retire. 1 would 
 be alone with you before I die." 
 
 Washington took the offered hand, and the 
 pale spectators retired in silence, gazing from 
 afar upon the white sycamore. 
 
 For some moments there was silence, while 
 (61) 
 
62 
 
 WASHINGTON AND HIS MEN. 
 
 the living and the dying gazed steadily into 
 each other's faces. 
 
 Braddock's face, pale with death ; clammy 
 on the brow and glassy in the eyes — Wash- 
 ington's visage, pale from fever and fatigue 
 but lighted by a soul whose fire never for a 
 moment grew dim. 
 
 It was a sad, a meaning contrast. 
 At last the silence was broken by the husky 
 voice of Braddock — 
 
 " George, in a little while I shall be dead" 
 — his lip did not quiver, nor his eye wander 
 — " When I am dead let me be buried in my 
 uniform, and let my body be protected from 
 dishonor." 
 
 Washington pressed the cold hand, and 
 answered in a subdued voice — 
 " It shall be as you wish." 
 "George," continued Braddock — and a last 
 throb of pain distorted his face — it was only 
 for a moment — " I have a last word to say 
 to you. It is not of friends, now far away — 
 I may have those who love me, who long for 
 my return. But why speak of them ? Before 
 the sun is low, I shall be dead — " 
 
 He paused and turned his face to the 
 shadow. 
 
 " Speak ! If you have a message, I will 
 fulfil it!" whispered Washington, bending over 
 the dying man. 
 
 " These weary days of our retreat have 
 brought strange thoughts home to me !'' said 
 Braddock in a calm voice. " I scorned your 
 advice — I did more — I scorned that instinct 
 of a heroic soul which fills your bosom, and 
 which is worth all the experience in the world. 
 Behold the result ! — An army cut to pieces — 
 my name given out to dishonor — seven hun- 
 dred corpses out of twelve hundred living 
 men!" 
 
 His eyes grew brighter — his voice rose. 
 " Do not speak thus !" faltered Washington, 
 wrung to the heart by the last words of the 
 death-stricken man. 
 
 " And for myself, a dishonored name, an 
 unknown grave !" 
 
 "No! no!" cried Washington 
 " There is no need of flattery at this hour. 
 The truth, if never seen before, comes up 
 terribly to us in the hour of death" — and the 
 eye of the dying man suddenly brightened into 
 aew life. " Young man, I marked you in the 
 
 hour of battle. I saw you resolved and calm, 
 while all the rest were mad with rage, or 
 palsied by dismay. That battle, which to me 
 is dishonor, which to seven hundred others 
 means only defeat and an unwept grave, to you 
 — to you — is life and fame !" 
 
 He dropped the hand of young Washington, 
 and sank back against the tree, pale, and cold, 
 and trembling. 
 
 Washington could not speak. 
 Bending near the dying General, one hand 
 still extended, while the other shadowed his 
 face, he felt the memories of his boyhood come 
 over him — suddenly — like a burst of sun- 
 shine through a thunder cloud — and a thought 
 of the Future took shape before him, and 
 panted with life. 
 
 Well was it that the shadowing hand hid the 
 agitated face of young Washington from the 
 gaze of the dying General. 
 
 And over the dreary glen the fires were 
 brightly burning, and through the thick foliage 
 great pillars of cloudy smoke rose in the even- 
 ing sky, and here and there, collected in 
 groups of two and three, the dismayed soldiers 
 watched the dying man from afar, and talked 
 of the fatal day of Monongahela. 
 
 It is a terrible thing to see one man ridden 
 by the nightmare fears of insanity, but the 
 most terrible insanity is that which throbs at 
 the same instant in the breast of a large body 
 of men, palsying and firing every heart by 
 turns, and overwhelming the individuality of 
 every man by one universal terror. 
 
 A panic like this swayed the fugitives from 
 Braddock's field. They were fresh from the 
 scenes of massacre ; the}' feared the war-whoop 
 of the Indian might startle the silence of the 
 pass before another moment was gone ; they 
 turned from side to side, in expectation of the 
 rifle shot and yell of murder. 
 
 And all the while Braddock was dying at 
 the foot of the s)'camore, with the young 
 Washington kneeling near him. 
 
 " George, had I won the battle, your name 
 would have been lost to fame. But the batfls 
 lost, it was your glorious part to save the liv- 
 ing from the dead, and bear the torn flag from 
 the grasp of the enemy. Therefore the battle 
 lost for me is a battle gained for you, a battle 
 won for your country — for the day will come 
 when your countrymen, remembering Brad- 
 
THE DEATH OF BRADDOCK. 
 
 63 
 
 dock's fight, will call for their young hero, and 
 demand his sword in a more glorious field." 
 
 Few words were spoken after this, between 
 the dying and the dead. 
 
 With the declining day, the life of Braddock 
 faded fast away. When the sunset l-ngered 
 on the top of the loftiest oak — it rises yonder 
 on the northern side of the dell — there was no 
 longer a dying man stretched at the foot of the 
 sycamore. 
 
 There was a corpse, clad in scarlet, with a 
 deeper scarlet near the heart — a corpse, rest- 
 ing on the sod with leaden eyes, turned toward 
 a glimpse of the sunset sky — and a group of 
 silent and dismayed soldiers, standing near the 
 dead, the form of young Washington rising 
 over all. 
 
 Some few paces distant, hardy backwoods- 
 men with spades in their hands, flashed the 
 earth aside, and made a grave for Braddock in 
 the centre of the road. A dreary road leading 
 through the wilderness from Fort Necessity to 
 Fort Duquesne, which had felt the hoof of his 
 war-horse five days ago, and now was to em- 
 bosom his corpse. 
 
 Mournful, and yet sublime in its very desola- 
 tion was the funeral of the dead General. 
 
 The grave was sunken — a cavity yawned 
 in the centre of the road — while the fresh 
 earth lay piled in brown heaps on either side. 
 
 The evening shadows were upon the scene. 
 StiU trembled sunset upon the lofty tree, and 
 the golden sky began to deepen into night. 
 
 They wrapped the dead man in a tattered 
 flag. The red cross of England was laid upon 
 his breast, and the folds of the torn banner 
 shut him out from the light forever. They 
 held his body over the grave ; two rough back- 
 woodsmen, one convulsed with riide emotion, 
 the other calm and tearless as stone. 
 
 The fearless man held the head of the Gen- 
 eral, and every eye remarked the giant stature, 
 the broad chest and scarred face of the uncouth 
 backwoodsman. 
 
 "My Brother!" he said, as he gazed on 
 Braddock's face — it was his rifle that had 
 dealt the death to the General, on the fatal hill- 
 side of Monongahela. 
 
 At the head of the grave, his form erect and 
 his forehead bare, stood Washington, his torn 
 attree showing the bullet marks of Braddock's 
 field The shadows gathered thicker — his 
 
 face and its varied emotions were not visible 
 
 — but through the stillness and the gloom they 
 heard his voice, speaking some words of hope 
 over the body of the dead. 
 
 The form of those words, their exact me- 
 mory has long since passed aWay, but Wash- 
 ington never till his latest hour forgot the twi- 
 light of that lonely glen, when standing at the 
 head of the rude grave — dug in the centre of 
 the road — he gave the body of Braddock to 
 grave-worm and the clod. 
 
 They lowered it into the grave — the rug- 
 ged backwoodsmen, one trembling, the other 
 firm and tearless. 
 
 And as the last glimpse of light left the tree- 
 top, and the first star came out from the world 
 of Heaven, they heaped the earth upon the 
 dead, and levelled it like a floor, passing the 
 men and horses and heavy wheels over the 
 road where the hero slept. 
 
 For they wished to save the corpse from 
 dishonor, from the white man's scorn and the 
 red man's steel. 
 
 Thus, without one sound of funeral music 
 
 — neither the roll of drum, or the shrill peal 
 of musquetry — they buried Braddock, at the 
 twilight hour, in the centre of the road. The 
 tramp of foosteps, the tread of horses' hoofs, 
 the groaning of the cumbrous wheels — these 
 echoed sullenly over the grave, as the silent 
 procession passed along — these were the only 
 sounds which broke the silence of the Gen- 
 eral's funeral. 
 
 Soon the fugitives were on their way again 
 
 — through the forest, from the direction of Fort 
 Necessity, came the murmur of their dreary 
 march. 
 
 Two figures lingered still — one near the 
 grave, leaning on a sword, and the other near 
 a tree, cutting some rude characters into its 
 rough bark. 
 
 And the one who leant upon his sword, and 
 with a swelling heart stood over Braddock's 
 corpse — for there was no traces of a grave — 
 was Washington. 
 
 The other ; a giant hunter, grimly clad, with 
 many a scar upon his face. You may guess 
 his name. He traced with his hunting knife 
 upon the bark of the tree, two crosses, one in 
 memory of the place where Braddock lay — 
 the other in memory of the hand which winged 
 the fatal bullet, or, perchance, in memory of 
 "Brother Arthur." 
 
V. 
 
 
 
 
 
 -'■ >fri.,. '*'?»M>^' -'w>?-''- : 
 
 
 
 .A" 
 
 (65) 
 
LEGEND TENTH. 
 
 THE KING AND THE PLANTER. 
 
 ■ In a venerable edifice, dedicated to the 
 memory of a thousand years — crowded with 
 monuments which resembled palaces — dense 
 and heavy with the atmosphere of death — a 
 young man stood one night in the fall of 1760, 
 leaning against a column, his arms folded and 
 his eyes cast to the floor. 
 
 That ancient place was full of light and dark- 
 ness — light more vivid than day, and dark- 
 ness deeper than the night. The great pillars 
 flung broad shadows over the floor, with belts 
 of radiance quivering here and there ; the 
 monuments stood boldly forth in red light, their 
 flowers of marble, and images, of death, glow- 
 ing into life and bloom ; the arches of the 
 place, stretching from pillar to pillar, and be- 
 wildering the eye with the intricate mazes of 
 Gothic architecture, waved with the banners 
 of a royal race. Banners rich with armorial 
 splendors, and sad with emblems of the grave. 
 The young man leaning with folded arms, 
 against a pillar, gazed in silence down a broad 
 aisle, which led among colossal monuments, 
 like the track of time among the dead of past 
 ages. 
 
 It was an impressive sight which met his 
 gaze. Advancing slowly, to the sound of low 
 deep music, a coffin burdened with velvet and 
 gold, appeared in the centre of a circle of 
 lighted torches. 
 
 Upon that coffin a crown was laid — it shone 
 from the black velvet like a strange jewel, set 
 Upon the breast of Death. 
 
 Around the coffin were yeomen of a royal 
 
 guard, clad in gay attire, and behind it, a long 
 procession extended far into the distance, until 
 its light and splendor dwindled into one little 
 point of brightness. There were priests clad 
 in sable — princes tottering under the weight 
 of robes, whose lengthened trains were borne 
 by lines of vassals — peers whose coronets 
 ghmmered dimly under jet black plumes. 
 
 The far-extending arches flung back the 
 music, which groaned in a dismal chaunt for 
 the dead — a dirge which had a voice but no 
 sorrow, a moan but no tears. 
 
 The same torch-light which flashed over the 
 gorgeous sadness of the funeral array, beamed 
 upon the face of the young man, while his form 
 was lost in shadow. 
 
 In that great temple he stood alone. On one 
 side was darkness ; on the other the coffin 
 glittering with a crown, and the procession 
 dwindling away in brightness, until it was lost 
 in the distance. 
 
 The face of the young man was by no means 
 unhandsome. It was a fair face ; the eye- 
 balls somewhat protuberant, the nether lip 
 hanging with an irresolute expression, but the 
 eyes were clear deep blue, and the low fore- 
 head and blonde complexion were relieved by 
 carefully arranged hair, strewn with white 
 powder, after the fashion of the time. 
 
 He was dressed in sable ; on his left breast 
 shone a single star. 
 
 And while leaning against the pillar, his bine 
 eye glanced upon the procession, the coffin 
 and the mourners, which every moment drew 
 (67) 
 
68 
 
 nearer, the .young man's face was agitated by 
 a singular expression. 
 
 It gave a glow to his cheek, imparted bright- 
 ness to his eye, and made his irresolute lip, 
 seem firm and determined. 
 
 This expression was not sorrow — it was 
 joy — joy whose very intensity was sublime. 
 
 For standing alone, by a great column of 
 Westminster Abbey, the handsome youth, 
 whose form and face were ripening fast into 
 beautiful manhood, did not weep as he beheld 
 the coifin — did not feel his heart grow heavy 
 with even one throb of awe, as the dismal 
 funeral chaunt swelled wearily upon the air. 
 
 It was the coffin of a king which he beheld. 
 Withm that coffin lay the corse of a power- 
 ful king. They were bearing him slowly along 
 the broad aisle — amid encircling soldiers, 
 priests and peers — under the arches hung 
 with banners — with the chaunt of death, the 
 solemn gleam of muffled arms, the sweeping 
 of princely robes, and bearing him to the vault 
 which yawned in tJie centre of the abbey. 
 
 And yet there was no tear in the young 
 man's eye. He gazed upon the coffin, watched 
 each minute detail of the splendid mockery, 
 and uttered in a low voice the simple words — 
 
 " ^ncl I am King of England — now 
 
 )» 
 
 The young man was George the Third, 
 gazing upon the funeral of his royal grandsire, 
 George the Second. 
 
 He felt it in every vein, it shone from his 
 eye, and with an involuntary impulse, he 
 reached forth his arm, exclaiming once more — 
 
 "King of England — King of England " 
 
 King of England ! 
 
 Not the England which a Norman Robber 
 conquered, one morning in the distant ages. 
 Not the England which quivered under the 
 iron footsteps of the Third Edward, or grew 
 drunk with blood under the Eighth Henry. 
 Not the England which saw Eliz.abeth upon 
 the throne ; Elizabeth who dipped her fair 
 maiden hands in the blood of Mary, and 
 boasted amid her virtuous orgies that she was, 
 in truth, the Virgin Queen. Not the stern, 
 heroic England which tried a crowned crim- 
 inal, and sent him to the scaffold, as a warn- 
 ing through all time to Royal Guilt. Not the 
 England which grew great and strong, stern in 
 .courage, mighty in its victories, mightier in its 
 
 WASHINGTON AND HIS MEN. 
 
 people, under the rule of a Brewer,- 'named 
 Cromwell. 
 
 No ! But an England, strong with the ac- 
 cumulated conquests of ages, red with the con- 
 centrated carnage of a thousand years : at once,i 
 infamous with consecrated Murder, and glori- 
 ous with an Empire mightier than Imperial 
 Rome. 
 
 This young man, clad in sable — a star glit- 
 tering on his breast — can lay his hand upon 
 the Map of the World, and sweeping his Royal 
 finger over England, Scotland, Ireland — over 
 North America — over India — exclaim, with- 
 out a boast : 
 
 "This, and this — and this — one-eighth of 
 the world, at least, is mine!" 
 
 Was it not enough to bewilder even a roya) 
 brain ? 
 
 India, won by an hundred thousand corpses, 
 multiplied by ten — Canada conquered with 
 the blood of Wolfe, poured forth upon the 
 rock of Quebec — North America, from Georgia 
 to Massac-husetts, secure under the dominion 
 of British Custom, British Taxes, and British 
 Law — Scotland, reeking with the carnage of 
 Glencoe — Ireland, beaten down at last, tram- 
 pled into dumb anguish, into slavery that had 
 no lower deep 
 
 This was " England" in 1760, and over 
 this England George the Second had reigned ; 
 and the handsome youth, George the Third, 
 was about to reign. 
 
 Therefore the spectacle of the royal funeral 
 
 — the coffin with purple and gold, the death- 
 chaunt and the long tram of splendid mourners 
 
 — brought no sorrow to the heart of the young 
 man, who, leaning against the column, mur- 
 mured — 
 
 "I am King of England— now" 
 
 And there came no omen to fright the soul 
 of the young King, there was no word of the 
 future to make him feel afraid. The banners 
 that waved from the wide arches, the priests 
 and lords who came along the aisle, the chaunt 
 of the death, and the coffin adorned by 3 
 Crown, only spoke to trim of a glorious future, 
 of a kingdom unbrokea by dissension, an im- 
 perial sway, consecrated by God and ac- 
 knowledged by men. 
 
 And all the while through the dark night 
 which brooded over London, Westminster 
 
THE KINO AND THE PLANTER. 
 
 69 
 
 Abbey illuminated for the reception of the royal 
 corpse, shone like a funeral pyre. 
 
 Let us for a moment gaze upon the hand- 
 some face which is turned toward the light, 
 while the young form is buried in shadow. 
 Let us mark the joy now glowing warmly on 
 the cheeks and flashing clearly in the blue 
 eyes. Let us stand in the midst of this dread 
 Mausoleum, called Westminster Abbey, and 
 while the splendors of a royal funeral mock 
 the monuments that start into view on every 
 side, and England sends her Prince and Priest 
 to bury the dead King, we will look upon the 
 face of the living Monarch, who, blessed by 
 youth, is about to enter upon a glorious career. 
 At this moment, we will ask one or more 
 rude questions, in our plain, peasant way — 
 
 Is there no danger in the future for this 
 King? 
 
 " Have the coming years any judgment for 
 his Throne, any stern decree against his 
 power and the power of Kings like him?'''' 
 
 There is danger for the King ; danger for 
 his Throne ; danger for the power of Kings 
 like him. 
 Where ? 
 
 In England ? Is he not the Sovereign Lord, 
 backed by a horde of Nobles, backed by a 
 code of bloody penal laws ? 
 
 Not in England — but yonder ? Yonder, 
 over the ocean — follow me across the tracks- 
 less ocean, into a land whose awful forests 
 and dread solitudes, compare but poorly with 
 Westminster Abbey, now flashing tlirough the 
 dark night, like a sublime funeral pyre. 
 
 We are here, by the waves of the Potomac. 
 A mansion, not remarkable for its height, or 
 its breadth, or for the splendor of its arch- 
 itecture, rises on the summit of a gently slop- 
 ing hill. Ft is half encircled by trees, and from 
 yonder window, the ray of a lamp trembles 
 out upon the dark river. 
 
 Entering the room lighted by that lamp, we 
 behold a man of twenty-eight years seated be- 
 side a table, hjs cheek resting on his hand. He 
 is clad very plainly. In fact, he wears the 
 costume of a Planter of 1760. His form, tall 
 and muscular, his face sharpened in every 
 outline, indicate a life of some experience and 
 toil. 
 
 Before him, on the table, rests a letter, and 
 a sword whose long blade is covered with rust. 
 
 It may be seen that there are stirring memo- 
 ries connected with the letter and the sword, 
 for as the solitary man gazes upon them, his 
 eye brightens and his cheek flashes into vigo- 
 rous bloom. 
 
 It is a very plain, uninteresting scene ; such 
 as we may behold at any moment of our lives. 
 A. man of twenty-eight years, seated alone, in 
 a neady furnished chamber, his cheek resting 
 on his hand, and his brightening eye fixed 
 upon a letter and a sword. 
 
 Look upon him — mark each outline of his 
 form — note each outline of his face. You see 
 nothing remarkable in the scene. It is only a 
 Virginian Planter, sitting alone in his home, 
 by the banks of the Potomac, at dead of night. 
 That is all you behold. 
 
 The contrast between this solitary figure and 
 Westminster Abbey, flashing with ten thou- 
 sand lights, crowded by a royal funeral, ten- 
 anted by a dead King, and a living — is it not 
 idle to think of any contrast ? 
 
 And yet the solitary Planter buried in 
 thought, sees spreading before him a succes- 
 sioii of wild and phantasmal pictures. He is 
 dreaming, not in sleep, but dreaming wide 
 awake. 
 
 He is mounted upon a horse ; that sword is 
 in his hand ; an army of peasants, only peas- 
 ants, extends around him. He is in battle ; 
 his army is crushed in dust and blood. But 
 another army darts into being from the dust 
 and blood ; his sword is still in his hand, and 
 now — waving over his head — a flag, such a 
 flag as never was seen before, flutters on the air 
 of battle. There is another contest; there are 
 cold faces upturned to a setting sun, and then 
 the scene changes. 
 
 Still it is only a dream, a wandering dream, 
 but the Planter is in the Senate Hall of a 
 People — how vague, how wild a dream ! In 
 the Senate Hall of a People — and amid the 
 deep silence of a breathless multitude, he is 
 invested with the crude insignia of a great of- 
 fice — he is hailed as the Liberator of a Na- 
 tion — acknowledged as the Ruler of freemen. 
 
 Such are the dreams of the Planter, and 
 rising from his seat he advances to the window, 
 and looks forth upon the night. 
 
 He smiles as he thinks of his waking dream 
 — and yet it still pursues him, with its pic- 
 tures of battles all ending with a free people, 
 
70 
 
 WASHINGTON AND HIS MEN. 
 
 all terminating in that scene, where a nation of 
 freemen hail their Ruler in the person of their 
 Liberator. 
 
 Smiling at his vague wild thoughts, the 
 Planter approached the table again — pauses for 
 a moment while the light streams over his 
 young face, already stamped with thought — 
 and then absently, scarce conscious of the ac- 
 tion, lays his hand upon his sword — 
 
 There is the danger, which the future has 
 in store for King George the Third. 
 
 There — in that hand grasping the sword — 
 in that eye lighting up with soul, in that face 
 stamped with a Prophecy of the Future — 
 there is the judgment which threatens the 
 future of King George and all Kings like 
 him. 
 
 They are burying the dead King in the Ab- 
 bey. They are placing the gorgeous coffin in ' 
 the vault; there are lines of torches, and 
 splendid apparel, deep crowds of mourners, 
 and a living King beside his grave. 
 
 At the same moment, perchance the Vir- 
 ginia Planter, away in his new-world home, in 
 his silent chamber, grasps his sword, and dares 
 to think of the Future. 
 
 He utters certain half-coherent words — 
 
 " This sword I wore at Braddock's field 
 
 and" — 
 
 He did not say where he would wear it 
 again, but his hand presses firmly the hilt of 
 his sword. 
 
 Was his dream false ? Did that sword ever 
 threaten the power of King George ? 
 
LEGEND TWELFTH. 
 
 WASHINGTON'S CHUISTMAS 
 
 A LEGEND OF VALLEY FORGE. 
 
 An ancient pistol, grim with the dents of 
 t)tttle, black with the rust of years, its stock of 
 dark mahogany inlaid with brass, its barrel at 
 least fourteen inches long, its tarnished lock 
 bearing the dim. inscription, " G. R. — 1718," 
 traced beside the figure of a Royal Crown. 
 
 An ancient clock, looking out from its coffin- 
 like case, with its dusky countenance sculp- 
 tured into dead flowers, the words " Jlugiistin 
 Neiser, Germant'n, 1732," engraven in dis- 
 tinct round hand, beneath the hands — an 
 ancient clock, whose bell rings out through the 
 silence of the night, with a clear, deep, silver 
 sound, like the knell of a dead century ; the 
 last word of the last of an hundred years. 
 
 An ancient arm chair, framed of solid oak, 
 the paint worn long ago from its brown arms, 
 the rude carvings which surmount its high 
 back, worn long ago, as smooth as polished 
 marble, with the letters "J. K., 1740," cut in 
 rough old German text, well nigh blotted out 
 by the touch of an hundred years. 
 
 An ancient Bible, massive in its heavy 
 covers, and clasped with pieces of carved silver, 
 its pages, embronzed by age, stained with the 
 traces of many a bitter tear, comprising that 
 
 "Family Relics " — in itself the history of 
 a race. 
 
 An ancient round table, fashioned of walnut, 
 that was planted on the Wissahikon hills, 
 three hundred years ago, when there were 
 Red Men in the land, who rudely worshipped 
 God in the rocks and trees and sky, and made 
 Religion of their Revenge — an ancient round 
 table, once strong and firm, but now creaking 
 and groaning as with the anguish of its 
 memories, that reach far back into the shadows 
 of an hundred years. 
 
 — They are all in my room, at this dead 
 hour of midnight and silence, as I write these 
 words, all glaring in the light of the wood-fire 
 which crumbles on the hearth. 
 
 The clock stands in the corner, pointing to 
 twelve, the arm-chai' is near it, spreading forth 
 its arms, as if to catch the full warmth of tlie 
 fire. The Pistol with its voiceless tube, rests 
 upon the Round Table, on which I write, and 
 outspread before me, is the venerable Book with 
 its clasps of silver. 
 
 I might tell you the story of these Relics of 
 the Past, and believe me, the story which tbey 
 bring home to me — or rather the hundred dif- 
 
 an 
 
72 
 
 WASHINGTON AND HIS JI£V 
 
 ferent Legends — would make the tears stand 
 in your eyes, the blood pulsate tumultuously 
 about your hearts. 
 
 For in that arm-chair, more than a hundred 
 years ago, an old man sate, bearing the name 
 which now is mine, and lifted his withered 
 hands and blessed his five sons, five manly 
 boys, reared in the woods of Wissahikon, which 
 I am so foolish as to love and cherish, even at 
 this hour, when it is blasphemous to love any 
 God, but the Lord of the Silver Dollar. 
 
 That old man — whose bronzed face and 
 hair as white as drifted snow, presented. a true 
 Image of that French-German race, who left 
 their native land, and brought their Spiritual 
 Faith, which taught that God might be wor- 
 shipped without Church or Priest, or Creed, 
 here, to the hills of Wissahikon, here to the 
 rolling vallies, called Gerniantown — that aged 
 Father, laid his withered hands upon the brown 
 locks of his sons, and blessed them as he died. 
 
 Of the Fate of those sons, a volume might 
 he written. Not a volume for those to read, 
 who love big names, and pretty uniforms, and 
 smooth sentences, soft and tasteless as the pulp 
 which fills your Critic's skull, and passes for 
 lirains — no ! But a volume for those ignorant 
 souls, to read and love, who like to see the 
 Providence of God, shining out, even from the 
 records of the humblest Home. 
 
 One son, went forth from that old man's 
 roof and in the Dream-Land of Wyoming, 
 reared himself a Home, and worshipped God, 
 •even as his father, without Priest — save the 
 voice of his own soul — or Temple, save that 
 which was sheltered by his fireside rafters, or 
 that glorious church which had the Mountains 
 for its pillars, the green vallies for its floor, 
 and for its dome, the blue canopy of God's 
 own sky. That son fell in the Massacre of 
 Wyoming ; at this hour the white monument, 
 erected on the banks of the Susquehanna, 
 bears his name, enrolled among the Martyrs. 
 
 Another son, died in battte, in the cause of 
 Washington. Of the Third and his race, all 
 traces were lost, until two years ago, when I 
 pressed the hand of his grand-son, who came 
 from the hills of Carolina. The Fourth went 
 forth into the western wilds and left no trace 
 or record of his fate. 
 
 The Fifth and last son, dwelt all his life in 
 
 the home of his fathers, and saw many children 
 blossom into the bloom of womanhood, or the 
 prime of manhood. Death has reaped every 
 man of them all, and gathered them into the 
 full sheaf of the graveyard : and at the present 
 hour, the author of these lines is the only man 
 that bears the name of the white-haired Pa- 
 triarch who one hundred years ago sat in the 
 arm-chair and blessed his children as he died. 
 
 You will therefore know what I mean, 
 when I say that these relics of the Past, have 
 a voice for me, as sad, as tender, as a sound 
 from the lips of the dying. 
 
 The old clock that rings so deeply now, its 
 silver voice pealed as clearly in the bloodiest 
 hour of the Battle of Germantown. The 
 Round Table on which I write, once bore the 
 paper on which Lord Cornwallis traced the 
 hurried and deadly details of the fight. But it 
 is not of these historic memories that I speak : 
 No ! There are other and more tender mem- 
 ories. That old clock pealed at the birth 
 hour of all my people, and rung their knell 
 as one by one they died. 
 
 Around the Table, how many faces have 
 been gathered in a Circle of Home, faces that 
 now are lost in graveyard dust ! 
 
 In that old chair, many a form has reposed 
 — how many, how revered, how dear — that 
 now find rest, within the narrow panels of the 
 coffin ! 
 
 And the old clock, like a spirit whom no 
 anguish can one moment sway from his calm 
 waich over the dying men and dying years, 
 rings out now, clear and deep, as it will ring 
 when I too, am gathered to the graveyard 
 sheaf. 
 
 The Pistol too, so grim in its battered tube 
 and stock, has a story — sad, touching — 
 linked with the tradition of the Round Table, 
 the arm chair, the clasped Bible and centuried 
 Clock. The pistol alone, never belonged to 
 my people, but there was a time, in the dark 
 hour of the Revolution, when Clock and 
 Chair, Bible and Table, passed into the hands 
 of a collateral branch of my race, and became 
 connected with the grim thing of death, in a 
 Legend of harrowing yet tender details. 
 
 Let me tell you that Legend now, while the 
 old cloak, with its silver voice, rings out the 
 Hour of Twelve ! 
 
WASHINGTON S CHRISTMAS. 
 
 7;^ 
 
 There was ?now upon the hills ; a mass of 
 leaden cloud, with broken edges, was hung 
 across the sky ; through the deep gorges, down 
 to the river, roared the winter wind, howling 
 the funeral song of tlie dying year ; and yet, 
 within the stone farm-house of Valley Forge, 
 the. Christmas fire burned with a warm and 
 cheerful glow. 
 
 A spacious room, with white walls and 
 sanded floor, huge rafters overhead, and a 
 broad hearth, heaped with massive hickory 
 logs. 
 
 On that hearth, in the oaken chair, sat a man 
 of some sixty years ; his athletic form, clad in 
 coarse garments of reddish brown, his hands, 
 cramped by toil, laid on his knees, while his 
 face glowed with its long beard and hair turn- 
 ing grey, and hues darkened by the summer 
 sun, in the cheerful light of the Christmas fire. 
 
 True, tlie garments of the old man were of 
 coarse home-spun — true, his floor was cover- 
 ed by no gay carpeting — the huge rafters over- 
 head concealed by no paint or plaster, and yet, 
 as he sate there, the room had a joyous look, 
 full of the word home, and his dark brown 
 cheek, with its hair and beard, silvering from 
 brown to grey, spoke something of a heart at 
 peace with God and man. 
 
 Crouching on the hearth, her head laid on 
 the old man's knee, a girl of sixteen years — 
 her young form blossoming fast into th« shape 
 and ripeness of woman — turned her clear 
 hazel eyes towards the light, and twined her 
 small hands among the cramped fingers of tlie 
 old man. 
 
 Her form was attired in plain home-spun — 
 boddice and skirt of dark brown — and yet it 
 was o:ie of those forms, which, in the warm 
 bosom just trembling into virgin ripeness, the 
 lithe waist, and the rounded outlines of the 
 shape, remind you very much of a flower that 
 q'livers on the stem, the red bloom just peep- 
 ing from the green leaves, and quivers more 
 gently in the moment when it is about to burst 
 the leaves, and blush into perfect loveliness. 
 
 A very loveable girl, with a soft, innocent 
 face — almost soft as infancy, and innocent as 
 the prayer of a child — was this maiden, 
 crouching by her father's knee on the hearth of 
 stone. Her brown hair, parted in two rich 
 masses, flowed over his knees, and half con- 
 cealed their hands. 
 
 "Katrine," said the old man — he bore the 
 plain German name of Israel Kuch, and spoke 
 with a German accent — "it is now twenty 
 years and more, since I left my native land, 
 with the brethren of my faith. They would 
 not let us worship God in our own way ; so 
 we followed Hiivi into the wilderness, and made 
 our homes where no man dare murder his 
 brother on account of his creed. You know 
 our custom, Katrine ?" 
 
 The young girl looked up, and in a voice 
 soft and whispering, answered : 
 
 " Every Christmas night, at the hour of 
 twelve, when the Lord Christ was born in the 
 manger of Betlilehem, we sing the Christmas 
 hymn, and read a chapter from the Book of 
 God." 
 
 You see this old pioneer of the -wilderness, 
 dwelling in the woods of Valley Forge, has 
 planted in the heart of his child the name of 
 Jesus ! 
 
 Silently she rose, and gazed upon the old 
 clock — it stands there, in the corner, with 
 its broad face to the fire, pointing to the hour 
 of twelve — and then taking the old Bible with 
 silver clasps from the table, she laid it on lier 
 father's knees. 
 
 A Christmas Picture ! 
 
 The old man, seated in the arm-chair, the 
 young girl, in her virgin bloom, bending before 
 him, the same fireside glow, warming his 
 withered face, her velvet cheek, and revealing 
 the opened Bible, whose silver clasps shone 
 like stars in the ruddy light. 
 
 Israel's face was suddenly mantled with 
 deep sadness : 
 
 " There was a time, Katrine, when your 
 mother was here to sing the Christmas hymn. 
 She sleeps in the grave-yard now " 
 
 There was another absent, whose merPiOry 
 comes freshly to their hearts, though his name 
 is not upon their lips. 
 
 "//e, too, is absent from home. lie journej-s 
 with the men of war: he has forgotten that 
 religion of peace which he learned by this 
 hearth, when he sang with us the Christmas 
 hymn ! " 
 
 The brave and fearless Konradt ! Even 
 now, turning her eyes — they were wet with 
 tears — from the light, Katrine remembered 
 him, her brother. A man of twenty years, 
 with a form like the forest poplar, a ruddy 
 
74 
 
 WASHINGTON AND HIS MEN. 
 
 brown face, brilliant with large gi-ey eyes and 
 shadowed by masses of chestnut-colored hair. 
 Katrine saw him as he looked on the day — 
 nearly a year gone by — when, with his true 
 rifle in his grasp, he passed the threshold of 
 home, bound for the Camp of Washington. 
 
 The old man knelt, and laid the Bible on 
 the chair. Witnout, the storm howled, and the 
 snow fell — within, the Christmas fire flung 
 its merry blaze, and the voice of prayer arose. 
 By lier father's side, knelt the young girl, 
 placing her clasped hands on her bosom, while 
 the fringes of her closed eyelids swept her 
 cheek. 
 
 And as the storm howled, the old man read 
 hose words which are at once poetry and re- 
 ligion. Beautiful it was to hear, in that lonely 
 home of Valley Forge, swelling from an old 
 man's lips, the very words which the Christians 
 of Rome, hunted to death, like wUd beasts, 
 read in the catacombs — those cities of the 
 dead, hidden beneath the city of the living — 
 eighteen hundred years ago ! 
 
 And there were in the same country, shepherd:; 
 ahiding in -the field, keeping watch over their flocks by 
 night. 
 
 And lo, the angel of the Lord came upon them, and 
 the glory of the Lord shone round about them : and 
 they were sore afraid. 
 
 And the angel said unto thern, fear not : for behold 
 I bring you good tidings of great Joy, which shall be 
 to all people. 
 
 For unto you is born this day, in the city of David, 
 a Saviour, which is Christ the Lord. 
 
 The clock rung forth the hour of twelve, as 
 the last word died on the old man's lips. 
 
 Clasping their hands over the Bibls, they 
 bent their heads in silent .prayer, her brown 
 curls mingling with the grey hairs of her 
 father. And the fireside light shone over them, 
 as th-ey knelt, and baptized them with its glow. 
 
 But suddenly, breaking like a thunder crash 
 upon that house of prayer, a sound was heard, 
 mingling with the howling of the storm, and 
 yet heard distinctly from that howling, as the 
 musket shot is heard through the cannon's roar. 
 
 A footstep — it is in the yard without the 
 farm-house — it is upon the stone steps leading 
 to the porch — it is upon the porch, and the 
 door springs with a crash, wide open. 
 
 At once, with the same impulse, Israel and 
 his child rise from their knees : with dilating 
 
 eyes they behold the sight, which we may be 
 hold with them. 
 
 Upon the threshold stands a wild figure, 
 gazing round the room, with a glassy — a 
 horror-stricken stare. It is a man of some 
 twenty-five years, whose hair and beard in- 
 crease the deathly paleness of his face, with 
 their raven-black hues, and give a wilder glare 
 to his eyes — so dark, so bright, so full ol 
 horror. 
 
 " John !" — the solitary word shrieked from 
 the maiden's lips, for in the wild form she re- 
 cognized her lover — her betrothed husband. 
 
 " John !" the old man echoed — " you are 
 a man of peace reared by my dearest friend, 
 your father, in the lessons of the Gospel, and 
 yet I behold you standing here, on Christmas 
 night, a bloody weapon in your hand — that 
 hand itself stained with blood !" 
 
 Not a word from the lips of the intruder ! 
 
 Staggering forward, he dashed the pistol on 
 the floor — it is there, dripping blood, even 
 where the flame glows brightest — and sank, 
 like a lifeless mass, at the old man's feet. 
 
 " Save me, Israel, save me !" — he shrieked 
 — " for I have done murder, and the avenger 
 of blood is on my track !" 
 
 "You I" — the voices of the old man and 
 his virgin child joined in chorus. 
 
 " Yea — I — I ! — the child of prayer ; — I 
 so far forgot the lessons which I learned from 
 my father, as to become one of a secret band of 
 Loyalists, who have taken an oath to uphold 
 the cause of the King. They swore to have 
 the life of the Rebel leader — cast lots, who 
 should do the deed — the lot fell on me." 
 
 In the excess of his remorse, he suffered iiis 
 head to droop, until his dark locks touched the 
 floor. The old man stood as though a thunder- 
 stroke had blasted him, while Katrine, raising 
 her hands to her forehead, gazed upon her 
 lover with an expression of bewildered pity 
 and horror. 
 
 " I swore to do the deed ! To-night, I saw 
 Washington leave his quarters, near the 
 Schuylkill — tracked him toward this farm- 
 house — a solitary dragoon rode some few feet 
 behind him. You see, I was wound up to 
 madness by the horrible oath — I nerved my 
 soul for the deed — I fired !" 
 
 " You killed Washington ?" 
 
 "No — no! The night was dark — my 
 
WASHINGTON S CHRISTMAS. 
 
 75 
 
 aim unsteady — I fired — the pistol exploded 
 in my grasp — I saw the dragoon, the innocent 
 man, fall from his steed ! I am a* murderer — 
 the curse of Cain — I feel it fasten on my 
 forehead Hark ! The Rebels pursue me — 
 I am lost !" 
 
 The sound of hoofs, the clattering of swords, 
 resounded outside the farm-house. In a mo- 
 ment the Americans will enter, and secure the 
 assassin. The strong man, who grovels on 
 the floor — blasted all at once into an image of 
 despair, more from remorse than fear — raised 
 his head and moaned in a tone of agony — 
 
 "Israel — I am lost !" 
 
 " You have done a terrible thing in the 
 sight of the Lord, John — but I will save 
 you." 
 
 Hark ! The soldiers have dismounted, 
 they are on the porch — the old man drags 
 the murderer from his knees, and points to- 
 ward the eastern door. 
 
 " Enter ! It is the bed-chamber of my absent 
 son. A. secret passage — built in the time of 
 the Indians — leads into the cellar, and from 
 thence into the fields, a hundred yards from 
 the house. You will find the door on one 
 side of the fire-place — I, myself, will hurry 
 to the fields, and open the spring-house door 
 — for into the spring-house this passage 
 leads !" 
 
 With these muttered words, he thrust the 
 murderer into the bed-chamber of his son — 
 closed the door — and turned in time, and only 
 in time, to confront a band of American dra- 
 goons, who rushed from the porch into the room. 
 
 •' The murderer ?" shouted the foremost 
 dragoon — a man stalwart in form, with a steel 
 helmet, surmounted by a bucktail plume, on 
 his brow, a sword gleaming in his hand. 
 " The murderer ? — where is. he ? He went 
 this way — entered this house — we must have 
 him—" 
 
 The old man with his beard imparting a 
 venerable appearance to his face, stood erect, 
 in the presence of those armed men, and sur- 
 veyed their drawn swords without a fear. 
 
 And Katrine — where is she ? 
 
 Upon her knees, before the Bible, spread 
 open in the old arm-chair, her brown tresses 
 flowing over her shoulders, her eyes closed — 
 the blood-stained pistol touching the folds of 
 hei dress. 
 
 It was a moment of fearful trial to the aged 
 Christian. He would not lie — he could not 
 give up to certain death any man, even a 
 murderer, who had claimed sanctuary in his 
 home. And yet, he must either utter a lie — 
 or surrender up to death the son of his old- 
 time friend. 
 
 " Why do you enter my home, with your 
 drawn swords, at this still hour of Christmas 
 night ?" he slowly said, anxious to gain time. 
 Hark ! There is a creaking sound in the next 
 room : the murderer has discovered the secret 
 door. 
 
 The only reply which Israel received was a 
 sword levelled at his heart. 
 
 " Come ! no words ! We know the Tory 
 is in your house ; and the Tory we will have, 
 by " 
 
 The brawny soldier clutched the hilt of his 
 sword," while the point was directed at the old - 
 man's heart. Meanwhile, in stern silence, his 
 comrades gathered round, grasping their pistols 
 and swords, with a death-like stillness. The 
 Christmas light flashed over the kneeling and 
 unconscious girl — over that solitary old man, 
 and along the group of maddened soldiers. 
 
 "Friend Thompson, you would not stab an 
 unarmed man" — began Israel, in a voice that 
 trembled with contending emotions. 
 
 A sudden — a decided reply ! The captain 
 made one deadly thrust with his sword, and a 
 half-uttered cry of horror, gasped in chorus by 
 his brother soldiers, echoed round the place. 
 For even to them, maddened by revenge, there 
 was something horrible in this murder of an 
 unarmed old man. 
 
 The sword flashed home, to its aim. Does 
 the old man fall a mangled thing, staining his 
 own hearth with his blood ? 
 
 " Come, Captain, this is somewhat too Bri- 
 tish for an American soldier !" spoke a strange 
 voice ; and a murmur o£ surprise rose from 
 every lip, as the Captain's sword fell clattering 
 on the floor. 
 
 Why that murmur of surprise ? Why this 
 sudden silence ? Wherefore does even old Is- 
 rael stand silent — wondering — dumb 
 
 That stranger, with the commanding form, 
 and noble face — stern, determined in its very 
 mildness — rivets every eye. 
 
 " Washington !" 
 
 As the cry rose once more, the stranger ad- 
 
76 
 
 SGTON AND HIS MEN. 
 
 vanced, and laid the bundle which he bore — 
 a wounded man, his forehead marked by a 
 hideous gash — upon the hearth, in the strong 
 glare of the fire. The stiffened arms of the 
 insensible man touched the dress of the uncon- 
 scious girl. 
 
 " Quick — my friends — some water for this 
 wounded man !" said the stranger ; " I fear me 
 he is dying ! I would not have him die thus, 
 for our cause knows no braver man than Cor- 
 net Kuch !" 
 
 The last word froze the old man's blood. 
 So much had his gaze been rivetted by the 
 solemn presence — the warrior form of that 
 stranger — that he had not time to gaze upon 
 the burden which he bore, half concealed in his 
 cloak. 
 
 But the last word cut him to the heart. He 
 wheeled on his heel, and by the light of the 
 Christmas fire beheld the wounded man ex- 
 tended on the hearthstone. 
 
 His own son dying, with a hideous wound 
 upon his forehead ; lips, eyelids and cheek 
 clotted with blood. 
 
 For a moment he reeled backward from the 
 sight, and turned his face away. 
 
 The troopers stood as if spell-bound. Wash- 
 ington's face writhed with an expression of in- 
 voluntary anguish. 
 
 He turned his face to the group again. It 
 was changed — horribly changed. That face, 
 on which peace seemed to have set its seal for- 
 ever, was now livid, ghastly, compressed in the 
 lips, and wild as madness in the eyes. 
 
 " My son !" he incoherently gasped. " Lord, 
 Lord my God, this cup is too bitter ! Let it 
 pass from me ! My son — Konradt ! No ! 
 no ! It cannot be !" 
 
 There seemed to be a red light — a sea of 
 blond bathed' in the glare of flames — rolhng 
 before his eyes ; his senses swam, his eye 
 shone with horrible lustre. 
 
 He strode forward and grasped the pistol 
 from the belt of Captain Thompson. 
 
 " He hath slain my son — the bone of mjr 
 bone — the blood of my blood — the prop of 
 my old age ! Stand back and let me pass ! 
 The murderer is in the spring-house in the 
 field. He shall die by my hands !" 
 
 He rushed from the room into the night and 
 the darkness. 
 
 " Follow him," cried Wasliiiigton. " He 
 
 will do harm to himself — and mark ye, let nr. 
 one, on peril of Jife, do harm to the murderer 
 of Cornet Kuch !" 
 
 It was at this moment that Katrine awoke 
 from her swDon. At this moment, when her 
 father rushed forth, pistol in hand, to do a deed 
 of murder — when the soldiers, stricken dumb 
 by his agony, retreated from his path — when 
 the voice of Washington was heard enjoining 
 that no harm should be done to the murderer 
 of her brother. 
 
 She rose — swept back the brown hair from 
 her brow — gazed upon her brother's form, 
 with the fatal wound on his forehead. 
 
 At a glance, by that divine instinct which 
 God hath given to women, as he bestows glory 
 upon his angels, poor Katrine read the whole 
 dark mystery. 
 
 " I will save my father from this deed of 
 murder!" she cried, and darted into her bro- 
 ther's bed-chamber. 
 
 Washington was alone with the wounded 
 man. His cloak throAvn aside, you see his tall 
 form clad in the uniform of blue, relieved by 
 buff, his good sword depending from the buck- 
 skin belt. His face, glowing with the mature 
 manhood of forty-seven years, now bears upon 
 every firm lineament the traces of deep mental 
 anguish. 
 
 He silently places the Bible on the round 
 table, beside the arm-chair, lifts the bloody pis- 
 tol fi-om the floor, and then raises the dying 
 man from his resting place on the hearth. 
 
 Gently — like a dear mother nursing her 
 child — he places the wounded soldier in thi 
 arm-chair, and bathes his brow with cold water. 
 
 Then bending over the insensible man, sur- 
 veying that frank countenance, now pale as 
 death, he washes the blood away, while a deep 
 ejaculation rises from his lips. 
 
 It is a scene for us to remember — Christ- 
 mas Night — the lonely farm-house — Wash- 
 ington, the Liberator of a People, revealed by 
 the Christmas fire, as he bathes the brow of a 
 wounded, a dying man. 
 
 Katrine, with her heart throbbing as though 
 it would burst, entered the door of the bed- 
 chamber, and saw the wretched murderer, seated 
 in one corner, the light revealing his livid face. 
 
 " John, you must fly — " she exclaimed, in 
 a calm voice, that sounded to him like the tone 
 
WASHINGTON S CHRISTMAS. 
 
 77 
 
 of a dying woman — "It is my brother who 
 fell by your hand — but, I, the sister, will 
 save you !" 
 
 She opened the secret door within the fire- 
 place, and turned upon him the light of her 
 hazel eyes. 
 
 — What words can picture the horror which 
 broke from his countenance, then ? 
 
 "Your brother?" he gasped — " Konradt, 
 the friend of my soul ? Oh, this is some hor- 
 rible dream ! You know that I love you, 
 Katrine — yes, with a love too deep to be of- 
 fered to a creature — a love that is mad, idola- 
 trous ! Think you, I would harm Konradt ? 
 No — no ! It is a trick of Satan to peril my 
 soul ! " 
 
 He cowered upon the floor, and clutching 
 her hands, looked with fearful intensity into 
 her face. 
 
 " Take your hands from mine, John — they 
 are stained with my brother's blood. The 
 door is open, the secret passage before you — 
 fly ! I bid you — I, the sister ! But my father 
 win not spare you — even now he hurries to 
 the spring-house, to strike you as you seek to 
 gain the woods ! Fly ! " 
 
 " I will fly, but it is to meet my death at his 
 hands ! " He darted into the secret passage. 
 
 — The memory of that livid face, was 
 stamped in terrible distinctness upon the soul 
 of the sister, as she gazed wildly around the 
 room. 
 
 Now was the moment for the child-like in- 
 nocence of her character to spring, all at once, 
 into the full bloom of a woman's heroism. 
 
 A shade crossed her face — her red lip grew 
 white — she tore the fastenings from her dress, 
 for her heart throbbed and grew cold, until she 
 gasped for breath — and in an instant, her dis- 
 ordered hair, could not altogether veil the trans- 
 parent loveliness of that bared bosom. 
 
 For a moment she tottered as though she 
 would fall lifeless on the floor — the shroud on 
 the form of death is not more pale than her 
 face. » 
 
 In that brief moment, the image of her happy 
 home, of the last Christmas, when John and 
 Konradt and her father, sat grouped by the 
 same fire — rushed vividly through her brain. 
 
 " Now, one is dead — the other, will die by 
 
 my father's But no ! God will help me 
 
 — I will save them yet !" 
 
 Light m hand, she darted into tlie shadows 
 of the narrow passage. 
 
 Down in the hollow yonder, near the 
 Schuylkill, whose hoarse murmur swells 
 through the night, rises a small structure of 
 dark grey stone, with a solitary door, formed 
 of heavy oaken panels, a steep roof, overarched 
 by the leafless branches, and a small stream, 
 winding from beneath that archway toward the 
 river. 
 
 In the summer time, this spring-house of 
 Farmer Kuch is a very lovcable thing to see. 
 Then-, the chesnut trees around it, are glorious 
 with broad green leaves ; there is a carpet of 
 grass and flowers before the dark old door ; the 
 very brook, singing its way to the Schuylkill, 
 is draperied with vines and blossoms. 
 
 But now it is winter. The trees leafless, 
 the brook shrouded in ice, the green prospect 
 of hill and valley, transformed into a wilder- 
 ness of snow. 
 
 From that waste, the spring-house rises like 
 a tomb, so black, so desolate, and alone. 
 
 Beside the door, stands the farmer, Israel 
 Kuch, cold damps like the death-sweat starting 
 from his brow, as the pistol trembles in the 
 gi-asp of his right hand. His livid face you 
 cannot see — for the night is dark, but the flash 
 of his dilating eyes breaks Upon you, even in 
 this midnight gloom. All his peace of soul is 
 gone : in its place, nothing but madness and 
 revenge. 
 
 " Mine only son — the blood of my own 
 heart murdered — no ! Lord, I wiU not falter. 
 Even as the Avenger of Blood, in the ancient 
 days of Israel, followed the murderer, and put 
 him to death, so Lord will I follow and put to 
 death the murderer of my son !" 
 
 Listen ! There is a sound in th-e spring- 
 house, a rattling as of bolts unfastening, within 
 the door. Yonder glooms the farm-house, not 
 one hundred yards distant, and over the waste 
 of snow, the troopers come hurrying on. The 
 old man, in his madness, has outstripped them. 
 In a moment they will be here, but a moment 
 will be too late. 
 
 Listen ! The bolt flics back within, but the 
 lock without holds the door firm. With one 
 blow the old man breaks the padlock, and wilh 
 his finger on the trigger, clutches the pistol, 
 and prepares to shoot the murderer as he 
 comes. 
 
78 
 
 WASHINGTON AND HIS MEN. 
 
 That was a moment of intense and sicken- 
 ing suspense. 
 
 The door receded, and the ray of a lamp 
 streaming through the doorway, revealed the 
 old man's livid face, and flung his shadow far 
 along the snow. 
 
 It was the murderer, lamp in hand, seekhig 
 to escape ! 
 
 — Katrine stood there, her bosom bared to 
 the cold, and defended only by her brown flow- 
 mg hair. She did not see her father. How 
 the heart of Israel throbbed in that terrible 
 moment ! But shading her eyes with her left 
 hand, she called — 
 
 " Father !" 
 
 " I am here !" and transformed by his re- 
 venge into an image of unnatural emotion, his 
 face from the beard to the brow, hideously 
 distorted, he clutched the pistol and confronted 
 his child. 
 
 " O, father ! can this be you ? A pistol in 
 ynur hand " 
 
 " The murderer of my son — where is he ?" 
 
 " But your lessons of peace, father, the 
 Bible, wliich says, ' Love your enemies' — 
 your own heart, father " 
 
 " The Lord hath called me, Katrine, and I 
 am here to do his bidding !" cried the wretched 
 man, as the hollow glare of his eyes rested 
 upon the pale face of the maiden : " Hark ! 
 the men of war come — they would cheat me 
 of I my victim. "Ah '."he groaned — "Mine 
 only son, mine only son, — Konradt mine 
 own boy !" 
 
 There was something awful in the depth of 
 his agony. 
 
 Scarce had his accents died, when a form 
 wilder than his own appeared in the doorway 
 — a face streaked with a livid blue glowed in 
 the light, and John the Murderer confronted 
 the father of his victim. 
 
 "Israel,'' he said in a husky voice, " It is 
 past ! kill me ! but forgive me, for verily, be- 
 fore God and the angels, I am a miserable man, 
 a sinner who hath lost his soul forever !" 
 
 With hands involuntarily joined, he stood 
 on the snoAv, and awaited his fate. 
 
 The old man shrank back at first, but as if 
 gathering strength for the deed, he presented 
 tlie pistol and fired. 
 
 'At the same moment the lights went out, and 
 all was darkness. 
 
 But did you see that young forrti bounding 
 in the air, those white arms outspread ? The 
 aim of the pistol was turned aside, and Kat- 
 rine, crouching .on the snow, clutched her 
 father by the knees. 
 
 " O, father — you cannot do it — God will 
 be angry with you — you cannot murder — 
 nay ! nay ! do not shake me from your grasp 
 — you taught me to love the Lord Christ, 
 who says, ' love your enemies,' and I will not 
 see you do this deed !" 
 
 "Ah! the murderer has escaped," groaned 
 Israel, struggling to free his knees from the 
 grasp of that heroic girl. 
 
 " No !" said a hollow voice, "He is here !" 
 
 Through the gloom, Israel beheld the out- 
 lines of the murderer's form, as he stood with 
 drooped head and folded arms. 
 
 At the same moment the troopers, like 
 shadowy forms, came hurrying round the cor- 
 ner of the spring-house, their arms gleaming 
 indistinctly in the midnight darkness. 
 
 But the old man saw them not. Reared 
 from infancy to love the Bible, to love above 
 all the gentleness, the forgiveness of the Gos- 
 pels, at this moment of madness, the dark 
 scenes of the Old Testament, the terrible judg- 
 ments of the Mosaic dispensation, alone pos- 
 sessed his soul. 
 
 " John, kneel on this sod, and pray forgive- 
 ness of your God, for at this hour I am about 
 to put you to death !" 
 
 " No — Israel — this won't do," cried Cap- 
 tain Thompson, forgetting his own anger at 
 the murderer, in overwhelming pity for the 
 despair of the old man — " We will arrest the 
 young man, but he must not be harmed; it's 
 Washington's orders !" 
 
 Fiercely the old man scowled upon the 
 group — one desperate .effort he made to shake 
 off the clutch of his daughter, and at the same 
 instant he seized a hunter's knife and sprang 
 upon his victim ! 
 
 Every man in that crowd held his breath, 
 but the brave girl did not unloose her grasp. 
 Up to his heart she sprung, arouiid his neck 
 she wound hsr arms, and even as he struck, 
 she baffled his deadly aim. 
 
 His madness now swept over all bounds. 
 There, unharmed, stood the murderer — there 
 grouped the awed soldiers — there, hung to 
 her father's neck, quivered the daughter. 
 
WASHINGTON S CHRISTMAS, 
 
 79 
 
 With one irresistible movement, he flung 
 Katrine from his neck, and knife in hand, 
 sprang forward. The strong man, with health 
 in his veins, and youth on his brow, knelt 
 calmly for the blow. 
 
 " John, the Lord hath spoken, and I obey !" 
 and the knife flashed in his hand. 
 
 But hark ! That cry heard over the waste 
 of snow — it reaches the old man's heart, for 
 it says " Father !" 
 
 Every man in the group heard that cry, and 
 felt his heart grow like ice, with an unknown 
 fear — it was the voice of the dead man Cor- 
 net Kiich. 
 
 " Joy — thank God — it is my brother's 
 voice !" — You behold Katrine sink swooning 
 on die snow. 
 
 The old man stood with his knife in mid-air 
 
 — stood bewildered — listening — dumb. 
 "Father!" the voice was nearer. 
 
 " Oh, can the demons mock me ? Am I 
 indeed given over to the Prince of the Power 
 of the air ?" Israel pressed his left hand to 
 his burning brain. 
 
 The troopers turned, gazed into the dark- 
 ness, but they saw nothing save the indistinct 
 eutline of the farm-house, the cold dead sky. 
 
 "This puzzles me, PU be confounded if it 
 don't !" muttered the stalwart Thompson, as 
 even he, an image of robust health, felt his 
 heart chill with superstitious fear. 
 
 " Tell me — do 1 dream — that voice " 
 
 the old man staggered wildly over the frozen 
 snow. 
 
 " Father !'' the voice spoke at his shoulder, 
 this time. 
 
 The old farmer turned, beheld a shadowy 
 figure, laid his hand upon a gashed forehead. 
 
 " Father ! It is I — your son, Konradt — not 
 killed, scarcely wounded — only a little stunned ! 
 Ha, ha ! A mere scratch after all the outcry 
 
 — come father, we will go home !" 
 
 Israel fell like a weight of lead — so heavy, 
 ss suddenly — and lay on the snow beside his 
 unconscious daughter. 
 
 Another form advanced from the gloom, and 
 a voice was heard — 
 
 " Captain, secure your prisoner !" 
 
 It was the voice of Washington. 
 
 In the old farm-house and by the .Christmas 
 fire again. The broad face of the clock, points 
 
 with its small hand to the hour of One. On 
 the round table, rests the blood-stained pistol 
 and the opened Bible. Before the fire, ex- 
 tended in the arm-chair, his form completely 
 broken down by the horrible emotions of the 
 past hour, Israel Kuch gazes in the faces of 
 his kneeling children. Here, Konradt with 
 the gash upon his brow concealed in a white 
 cloth, there loveable Katrine, smiling as tlie 
 tears course down her cheeks. 
 
 The troopers wait in the yard, without, 
 ready for the march. 
 
 Up and down along the floor in front of the 
 fire, paces Washington, his hands behind his 
 back, his eyes cast downward. That face is 
 stern as death. Now he pauses — steals a 
 glance toward the group, and then — while a 
 scarcely perceptible emotion quivers over his 
 face — resumes his measured pace again. 
 
 Where is the murderer in thought, the man 
 who levelled his pistol at the head of Wash- 
 ington 1 
 
 Come with me through the eastern door, 
 into this small bed-chamber, where a solitary 
 lamp lights up the fire-place, the bed with un- 
 ruffled coverlet, the old-fashioned chairs, and 
 walls as white as unstained paper. 
 
 Crouching on a chair, his knees supporting 
 his elbows, with his cheeks pressed in his cold 
 and trembling hands, behold the murderer. His 
 pale face is framed in dark hair and beard — 
 his throat is bare — his eyes, sunken in the 
 sockets, shine with an anguish too big for utter- 
 ance. 
 
 Wrapt in his own fiery whirlpool of remorse, 
 he does not hear the opening door, nor heed 
 the advancing form. A hand is laid upon his 
 shoulder ; he looks up and beholds the stern 
 face of Washington. As though a bolt had 
 stricken him, he shrinks away from that hand, 
 for well he knows, that taken in the act of a 
 base assassination, he has but one Future — 
 the gibbet and the felon's grave. 
 
 "My friend, did I ever harm you!' said 
 that deep-toned voice. 
 
 John buried his face in his hands. 
 
 " They speak of you as a quiet, a leagious 
 young man, descended from that class of the 
 German people, who hold war and all that be- 
 longs to war, in decided abhorrence. I am 
 anxious to know in what manner have I incur- 
 red your hatred — why arm yourself against 
 my life ?" 
 
80 
 
 WASHINGTON AND HIS MEN. 
 
 There was a light in Washington's eye, a 
 glow upon his face. John looked up and felt 
 encouraged to speak. In broken tones, he 
 poured forth the whole story — grew wild, 
 painfully eloquent, in that frank confession of 
 his last hour. Entangled in a secret associa- 
 tion of loyalists, he had been led on from step 
 to step, until a horrible and blasphemous oath, 
 taken amid scenes of darkness and mystery, 
 hurried him to a purpose, which his soul be- 
 held with shuddering. " I cannot tell their 
 names — my feelings of love to G od, loyalty 
 to the king were horribly trifled with it is true 
 — but I cannot reveal their names ! That 
 OATH maddened me — you behold me now, 
 willing to pay the forfeit of my crime, eager to 
 die and be forgotten !" 
 
 AVith clasped hands and gasping utterance, 
 he looked up into the face of Washington. 
 
 The American Chieftain turned his face 
 away, and lc=med his arm upon the mantel. 
 By his averted face and downcast head, you 
 may guess the nature of his thoughts. 
 
 Was he thinking of his own life, which be- 
 gan with a nature wild and passionate as the 
 flowers and sun of the southern clime, and 
 grew into ripeness with a calm, cold, stern ex- 
 terior, hiding the fires that glowed within the 
 heart? Was he thinking of his hardy boy- 
 hood, passed among the rocks and mountains 
 of the western wilderness, and nourished into 
 manhood through many a bitter trial? 
 
 Did he, that man whose warm heart was 
 veiled with an icy shroud — who afterwards 
 signed with an unfaltering pen and tearful eyes 
 the death-warrant of John Andre — did he be- 
 hold amid the wrecks of a mad fanaticism 
 which covered the murderer's soul, the tokens 
 of a better nature, the buds of a noble man- 
 hood? 
 
 For a long time he pondered there, by the 
 hearth, while the miserable John ****, with 
 his face growing yet more livid, awaited the 
 ■words of fate. 
 
 " You will be tried, sir, according to the 
 forms of law in cases like yours provided" — 
 *uch were his cold words as he turned his 
 calm face to the murderer again — "In a 
 
 moment the soldiers of my Life Guard will 
 bear you to the camp at Valley Forge." 
 
 He left the bed-chamber with his usual 
 measured pace. 
 
 John fell upon his knees, buried his face in 
 his hands, which rested on the chair, and tried 
 to pray. Tried ! But above him a sky of 
 black marble seemed to spread, and as the 
 words faltered from his lips they fell back 
 upon his heart again like balls of living fire. 
 
 " Come, sir, the guard await you," said the 
 voice of Washington 
 
 John started to his feet, confronted his doom, 
 and felt — that warm, loveable Katrine quiver- 
 ing on his heart, her arms around his neck, 
 her loosened hair about his face. 
 
 " There, sir, before you shoot at me again, 
 learn to be more careful in your aim." There 
 was a smile upon that magnificent face — 
 something like a tear in ihat brilliant eye of 
 deep rich gray. 
 
 It was a painful thing to see the freed blood 
 pouring in one impetuous torrent from John's 
 heart tc his face — to see the wonder, doubt, 
 tremulous joy, painted there — to see the 
 head pillowed on his shoulders, while over 
 his uplifted arms fell the maiden's luxuriant 
 hair. 
 
 But a glorious thing it was to see that com- 
 manding form, one hand resting on the hilt of 
 his sword, while the other shaded his eyes 
 from the light, yet did not hide the nervous 
 movement of his lips. It would have stirred 
 your blood to behold that great man on his 
 war-horse, riding forth to batde, but now it 
 would have forced the tears in torrents from 
 your eyes to view him, in ihat half-lighted 
 chamber, shaken almost into womanish feeling, 
 as he saw the result of his own — For 
 giveness. 
 
 The old farmer reposed in the arm-chair, 
 his son bending over him — the pistol and the 
 Bible were laid upon the round table — the 
 clock tolled one — and the Christmas Fire 
 lighted up the faces of the lovers as they knelt 
 and took upon their heads, the blessing and 
 The Revenge of Washington, 
 
LEGEND THIRTEENTH. 
 
 THE FOURTH OF JULY. 1776, 
 
 OB 
 
 THE DECLAEATION AND THE SIGNEBS: 
 
 A LEGEND OF "WASHINGTON AND HIS MEN" IN CONNECTION WITH THE DECLARATION 
 
 OF INDEPENDENCE. 
 
 (81) 
 
PROLOGUE, 
 
 Theouoh the deep shadows into the gay sunlight — 
 through the trees, whose grand old trunks arise 
 around us, whose mingling leaves wave in light and 
 perfume above us — through the wild-wood paths, 
 where the moss grows, and the flowers bloom — 
 tlirough the rocks that darken on either side, venera- 
 ble with their ten thousand ages, beautiful with the 
 vines that float along their hoary brows — through 
 this dim old forest, where your foot falls without a 
 sound, where your soul feels the presence of its God, 
 and your whispered word is flung back by an hundred 
 echoes — we will wander, on this calm summer eve. 
 
 It is the Third of July, 1776. 
 
 It is that serene evening hour, when the moss be- 
 neath yotr feet is varied with long belts of black and 
 gold. It is the time when the deep quiet of nature — 
 the distant sound of leaves and streams — the glow 
 of the sun, shining his last, over cloud and sky, melts 
 the heart, and steals it away, by gentle steps, to God. 
 
 Then, if we have never prayed, we will fall down 
 and worship. Then, if we have never felt the presence 
 of God in the awful cathedral aisle, where the smoke 
 of the incense winds in snowy wreaths about the 
 brow of the Blessed One, or encircles, with a veil of 
 misty loveliness, the sad, sweet face of Mary our 
 Mother, we will here feel our knees bend, our voices 
 falter in prayer, our hearts go up to Heaven, even as 
 the last ray of the setting sun melts gently up the sky. 
 
 For this wild wood is the cathedral of Nature, 
 where every tree that towers, every flower that bends 
 to the sod, as though sleepy with voluptuous perfume, 
 every ripple of the stream, every leaf of the bough, 
 says, as it floats or shines, or blooms or waves, 
 " There is a God, and he is good, and all men are 
 Iiis children !" 
 
 Fou may smile at this— cold hearts of the world 
 — who never rise from counting your pennies; you 
 
 may sneer, grave critic, who never felt a heart- 
 throb, or owned one thought of beauty, or sufl'ered 
 one word of feeling to flow from your pen and make 
 men's hearts beat quicker ; but even you, in the calm 
 evening hour, would kneel and worship God. 
 
 For it is the Wissahikon. 
 
 I will not bewilder year hearts with memories of 
 the past, nor tell you that every old tree has its story, 
 every foot of mossy earth its legend ; nor point back 
 into the broodiag shadows of a thousand years, when 
 that huge rock was an altar, that beautiful stream, 
 winding in light and shadow, the baptismal font of a 
 forgotten religion, while here, among these shadowy 
 ravines, grouped the maidens, their bosoms beating 
 beneath vestments of snowy white, the priests, ar- 
 rayed in midnight hues, the sacrificial knife gleaming 
 over their heads ; the warriors, whose strange cos- 
 tume, and dark physiognomy, and weapons of bat- 
 tle, have long since passed from the memory of man. 
 
 But I will ask you — 
 
 Did you ever, on a winter night, when the snow was 
 on the ground, and the light of the hearthside fire upon 
 your face, lean gently back in your cushioned chair, 
 and with half-shut eyes dream a voluptuous dream of a 
 summer evening, with the lazy sunshine bathing great 
 masses of leaves, while a supernatural stream wound 
 softly along, among rocks, and flowers, and trees ? 
 
 Your dream is here ! 
 
 Then, on that winter night, while the wind howled 
 without, half-closing your eyes, you saw a winding 
 path, leading far down the dell, with sunshine gushing 
 from below, and the boughs bending toward the ground 
 until they touched the cups of the wild flowers 1 
 
 Your dream is here I 
 
 Or did you behold a cool, shady place in the midst of 
 great forest trees, where the wild vines formed a cir- 
 cle of undulating leaves, and every leaf was kissing a 
 (33j ' 
 
84 
 
 PROLOGI'E. 
 
 flower; — where the moss, forming a carpet for your 
 feet, seemed glad, as the occasional sunbeams stole 
 over its surface, while a rugged limb, interlacing with 
 slight branches, all woven together with flowers, fornjed 
 the roof of this perfumed forest home 1 
 
 Your dream is here ! 
 
 Or, did you, with your face still glowing in that 
 bearthside light, wish to escape the beams of the July 
 sun, and wandering from the beaten track, until the 
 trees gathering more thickly, made a shadow like night 
 come to the place where the leaves, descending to the 
 very ground, formed an impenetrable barrier across 
 your path — a wall of foliage and perfume'! Im- 
 penetrable, and yet you pushed that wall aside, and 
 Etood in the shadow of an overhanging rock, from whose 
 dark surface trickled a thousand little streams, uniting 
 below, where the rock formed a basin, in the spring of 
 cool, clear water, that lay like a mirror at your feet 1 
 7'hen, making a cup with the broad leaf of the chesnut 
 tree, you bent down, and drank the wine of the living 
 locks, this clear, cold water, fresh from the caverns of 
 mother earth. 
 
 Still, your dream is here ! 
 
 Or, wandering in the chambers of a mansion, that 
 seemed deserted for ages — the ceiling veiled in cob- 
 webs, the floors dark with dust, the trapestry eaten by 
 Jnoths — feel your heart grow cold, as your solitary 
 footfall came back in a thousand echoes, and upstart- 
 ing from some dark corner, a strange woman stood be- 
 fore you, her beautiful form clad in black velvet, her 
 eyes darting their deep light into your soul ^ 
 
 Still, here on the Wissahikon, you will find your 
 dream ! 
 
 Or, once more,— ^ you seemed loitering along the 
 shades of the forest-path ; you heard a voice, of vivid 
 melody, thrilling like any forest-bird, its virgin song ; 
 and following the sweet sound, you suddenly beheld 
 on angel form, stepping from the she'ter of the trees, 
 beautiful as Eve before she fell, and gliding inch, by 
 inch, into the clear waves, her long hair floating over 
 the ripples which dashed against her snow-white arms t 
 
 tJpoij my word, your dream is here ! 
 
 But suddenly, tliis vision of a winter night became 
 wiluly changed. Blasts of organ-like music made by 
 the winds howling through caverns, broke awfully on 
 your soul. Then the gust of a summer rain swept 
 your cheek, every drop fragrant with perfume. You 
 beheld the angel form of the young girl walk beside the 
 dark woman, who led her to the verge of an awful cliff, 
 
 smiling al the while, as she pushed the virgin towarda 
 the al)yss. Flowers and skulls, perfumes and horrors, 
 blasts from the grave, and breezes of May, were min- 
 gled in a strange — a grotesque panorama. And the 
 last thing that you beheld, was a fair young face, sink- 
 ing slowly into the waters of a fathomless abyss, her 
 mild eye upraised, her soft voice whispering in prayer. 
 
 With a cry of horror, you awoke, wondering — as 
 the damps of fear started from your flesh — whether, in 
 all the world, there had ever happened any history, so 
 full of strong contrasts, so much light, so much black- 
 ness, as this, your dream of a winter night 1 
 
 Believe me, you will find the dream living bodily, 
 and throbbing tumultuonsly, here on the Wissahikon! 
 
 Come with me into its shadows'! 
 
 Leaving the dusty road, we behold the dark grey 
 walls of an ancient mill, with a world of leaves behind 
 it. Drowsily turns the heavy wheel, scattering drops 
 of light from its gloomy timbers ; sleepily trickles thx 
 water over beds of rocks: beautifully upon the mill 
 and the rocks, the waters that are rushing there, and 
 the leaves that accumulate yoncK-'r, glows the last smile 
 of the setting sun. 
 
 The mill is passed : behold a narrow path, leading 
 away into the trees, its brown sand contrasted with the 
 grass on either side. Yonder glooms a hugejock ; we 
 reach its foot, we see the trees towering far above us 
 clusters of foliage rising on clusters, until but a glimpse 
 of the blue sky is seen. • 
 
 The walk is passed ; — is it a dream that breaks upon 
 us? • 
 
 Far, far away, extends a track of golden light, that 
 shines until it fades. Look closer and in that track of 
 light, you discover the Wissahikon, sunken deep, 
 between two walls of leaves and rocks that start up- 
 right from its very shores into the sky. And it flows 
 silently on, receiving on its bosom that last gush of 
 light, which pours above these heights from the western 
 sky. 
 
 Yonder, the leaves descend to its waters, and embrace 
 it, as though they would bury it from the light, in a 
 veil of foliage. The vines bend over it, and scatter their 
 blossoms upon its waves. The very path seems tolove 
 it, for descending from these rugged steeps, it leads along 
 the shore, only separated by a line of sand and flowers 
 from its waters. 
 
 The stream narrows, the trees abnost meet from 
 opposite sides, when suddenly this wild enchantress, 
 
PROLOGUE. 
 
 85 
 
 the Indian maid, called Wissahikon, opens to us a 
 prospect as strange as it is wildly beautiful. 
 
 Stand with me, on this clump of green and shrubs, 
 and behold it ! Yonder, on the left, a wall of rocks 
 rises, in gloomy grandeur into the sky. The waters 
 gush upon their feet, the pines — see them far over- 
 head — crown their brows. Black and dismal, rocks 
 heaped on rocks, cliff starting over cliff, this wall 
 towers above us, its dark surface, here and there re- 
 lieved by vines, or shadowed by trees, that grow 
 between the clefts, their green branches shooting into 
 light from every pile of granite. 
 
 To the left, the woods ascend, in a rolling outline, 
 like a wave of the ocean ; only for ripples, you have 
 leaves ; for cheerless water, delicious foliage, wreathed 
 with flowers. 
 
 Directly in front, the narrow path leads up a steep 
 hill. On the summit of that hill, a house of grey 
 stone, encircled by a garden, a spring of cold water, 
 gushing into an oaken trough, one solitary tree, bend- 
 ing over the steep roof, and rising, alone — a pyramid 
 of leaves — into the evening sky. 
 
 The last ray of the sun is trembling on the top of that 
 tree ! 
 
 Between the hill covered by the house of dark stone, 
 and this gloomy wall of cliffs, comes the Wissahikon, 
 chafed into a rage by the rocks spread in her way, and 
 writhing, on every wave, into a white foam, that looks 
 like spring blossnms agitated by the wind. 
 
 She came 'leaping over ihe rocks, filling the wild 
 dell with the voice of her agony ; but the moment these 
 rocks are past, she is calm again — she subsides into a 
 gentle lake — she lovingly kisses the feet of the cliff, 
 whispers in those caverns, and ripples her blessing to 
 the flowers on yonder isle ! 
 
 We ascend the hill, and lingering on its summit, 
 taste the waters of the spring, as we gaze for the last 
 time upon the setting sun. 
 
 Then, into the shadows, along the wood that darkens, 
 until we stand upon the rock, with the Wissahikon far 
 beneath our feet. 
 
 Look down! 
 
 Rushing from the north, her course is stayed by 
 this dense mass of earth and trees and rocks. With a 
 sudden movement, she wheels directly to the west, and 
 hurries smilingly on. Look down ! How calm, how 
 like the sinless sleep of Eve in Paradise, that water 
 smiles as it rests in the embrace of its beloved trees ! 
 
 Here the bank is steep and precipitous; yonder the 
 
 woods shelve down into a level point of land, which 
 projects into the clear waves. So dense Is the shade 
 cast by the overhanging trees upon the dark, rich eartji, 
 that but a few scattered clumps of grass and flowers 
 overspread its surface. Look down ! Around that 
 point, beneath the trees that stretch out their arms as if 
 they loved it, the Wissahikon ripples, smiles, and glides 
 on without a sound. 
 
 Look down, but do not let your gaze wander too 
 long upon the clear deep waters. For there is a strange 
 fascination in those waves that wiles you to their 
 embrace, and makes you wish to bury life and its 
 troubles among their ripples. 
 
 To yonder rock, where the dark waters spread into 
 a limpid sheet, not deeper than your ankle, at dead of 
 night, when the moon shone out over the trees, there 
 came a young girl, who silently bared her form, and 
 laid herself to rest, upon the pebbled bed, with the cool 
 waters dashing over her bosom. The night passed, 
 and she slept on. The morning came, and they found 
 her there, with head rising and falling with the gentle 
 motion of Ihe stream, her brown hair floating in the 
 ripples, her white bosom now covered by the waves, 
 now laid bare to the light. ?he slept well, upon the 
 pebbled bed, rocked by the waters. No stain was on 
 her name, no grief upon her heart. The aged man, 
 her father, who lifted the corse from its watery cradle 
 could not impute to her one guilty thought. 
 
 Her attire was found upon yon rock ; her Bible and 
 prayer book on the grass beside the stream. 
 
 She had toiled three weary miles to die upon the 
 bosom of the stream she loved so well. 
 
 And when the old man laid her on the bank, there 
 was a sad, sweet smile upon her face, as though some 
 good angel had kissed her in her closing hour, and 
 left a blessing on her lips. 
 
 Along the northern path, with the stream roaring 
 below us, we will hurry on. 
 
 A beautiful oicture ! " hat cluster of old cottages 
 and barns, grouped beside the mill, with rocks frown- 
 ing above, and a sea of foliage, swelHng into the sky. 
 In that cottage, Eittenhouse, the Philosopher, was born ; 
 between yonder rock and the buttonwood tree lies the 
 space of earth which witnessed one of the darkest 
 tragedies that ever froze the blood but to hear told 
 again.* The blood of a father poured forth by the 
 son, moistened that grassy sod. 
 
 * See the Legend of the Parricide, page 98, of " Washingtoo 
 and his Generals," bj George Lippard. 
 
86 
 
 Beside the mill, a mass of rocks chokes the course 
 of Wissahikon. Above the wall of rocks, extending 
 from the mill-wheel to the opposite shore, how calmly 
 it glides on, its bosom shadowed by the trees that meet 
 above its waveless waters ! Below, how it darkens, 
 and boils, and foams, filling the air with its shout ! 
 
 Let us enter the light canoe, and while the oar makes 
 low music to the ripples, glide softly on I Behind us 
 pass the trees, still there are new groups ahead ! Be- 
 hind us bloom the flowers, still new blossoms greet us 
 as we go ! Behind us flashes the ripples, still before 
 our canoe the stream extends, with foliage rising to ihe 
 sky on either side. 
 
 At last emerging from the thick shadow, we beheld 
 a mound-like, covered by a strange edifice, built of 
 stone, with steep roofs and many windows, and a 
 garden blooming far down into the glen. » 
 
 That is the RJonastery, in which the Monks of Wis- 
 sahikon, long ago worshipped their God, without a 
 creed. 
 
 In this space, between the mill which we have left 
 and the Monastery which rises before us, on the 
 eastern banks of Wissahikon, behold a quiet cottage, 
 smiling from among the forest trees. It is built in the 
 
 space between two colossal rocks ; above it, far, far into 
 the sky towers that wall of leaves ; from its narrow 
 door to the water's edge, a plot of level earth tixtends, 
 green with moss and blooming with flowers. 
 
 Even as an altar, on which the dearest hopes and 
 fondest memories blossom, so from the forest out upon 
 the waters, looks that Cottage Home of Wissahikon 
 
 This was on the third of July, 1776. 
 
 Now, the rocks are clad with wild vines ; the garden 
 is a waste. Yet, searching among those viaes, you 
 may still discover the traces of a wall, the scattered 
 stones and broken roof tile of that forest home ! 
 
 And the story of that home, the strange Legend of 
 the wild Rose that bloomed there, which leads us into 
 scenes of absorbing interests now unveiHng to our 
 gaze, the Hall of Independence, crowded with the 
 shadows of the past, now treading these shades and 
 dells of Wissahikon, shall be inscribed with a name 
 worthy of the purest page that e'ver kindled a generous 
 emotion in the heart, or raised the soul with words of 
 holy truth — 
 
 TO 
 
 » # * # 
 THIS STORY OF THE PAST IS DEDICATED. 
 
THE FOURTH OF JULY, 1776. 
 
 OR 
 
 THE DECLAEATION AND THE SIGNERS, 
 
 CHAPTER FIRST. 
 
 OLD MICHAEL, THE HUNTER. 
 
 A hale old man, leaning on his rifle, with an 
 iron frame, a bronzed visage, and snow-white 
 hair ! 
 
 It was in the midst of the forest, where a 
 huge oak tree, torn up by the roots, lay pros- 
 trate on the sward, the brown earth yet fresh 
 about its trunk, its leaves still blooming in 
 summer green. 
 
 He stands before us, that old man, an 
 tfFective picture of a bold backwoodsman ; his 
 aroad chest and muscular arms displayed in 
 their firm outlines by the folds of his blue 
 hunting shirt, his limbs encased in buckskin 
 leggings, moccasins on his, feet, and a fur cap> 
 green with a solitary oaken sprig, resting on 
 his brow. 
 
 The rifle on which he leans, long and dark 
 and marked with scars, betrays the indications 
 of thirty years' toil in the woods, and danger 
 on the mountain path. 
 
 Strung over his broad chest, a belt of dark 
 leather sustains his shot pouch and powder 
 horn. In the broad girdle, — a wampum belt, 
 inscribed with the language of the red man — 
 which encircles his waist, gathering in its con- 
 fines the loose folds of his hunting shirt, a knife 
 is placed, its handle of bone contrasting with 
 the long and glittering blade. His face im- 
 presses you at once with a picture of green old 
 age. 
 
 Bronzed by the winter wind and the summer 
 sun, marked with the traces of many a deadly 
 conflict, the hair blanched into snow by the 
 touch of seventy years, it displays a prominent 
 nose, a broad chin, high cheek bones, and a 
 firm mouth, encircled by heavy wrinkles. In- 
 deed, the whole visage is traversed by wrinkles 
 
 that resemble threads of iron, in their strongly 
 marked outlines. 
 
 From the shadow of his thick grey eye- 
 brows, the gleam of two clear eyes, undimmed 
 by the frost of age, now blue, now grey in 
 their liquid, breaks gently on you. Gently, and 
 yet there are times when the light of those 
 eyes remind you of a panther at bay, his blaz- 
 ing orbs glaring from the darkness of a cavern. 
 
 And the old man, this hermit of the woods, 
 who speaks a plainer speech with his rifles than 
 with his tongue, stands before us, on the 
 sward ; the leaves spreading a weaving roof 
 above him, the evening solitude of the woods 
 extending on every side. 
 
 He lifts his cap — fashioned of the wild 
 beast's hide — and that solitary ray of sunlight 
 wandering through the foliage, streams upon 
 his white hair. 
 
 By his side, reclining on the trunk of the 
 prostrate oak, you behold a form whose every 
 outline is strongly contrasted with the figure 
 of the old backwoodsman. 
 
 It is a young man in the vigor of early man- 
 hood. His form, well-knit and muscular, yet 
 delicate almost to womanly beauty, in its 
 graceful outline, is attired in a costume of dark 
 velvet — a coat reaching half-way to the knee, 
 and girded to the waist by a belt of leather — 
 boots of the same hue encase his limbs, and a 
 white collar thrown open at the neck, displays 
 the chiselled outline of his throat. 
 
 Yet it is not upon the dark attire enveloping 
 his agile form that you gaze, nor upon his 
 beautiful rifle, whose dark tube is relieved by 
 the mahogany stock, mounted in silver, nor 
 does the powder horn, inlaid with golden 
 flowers, nor the hunting knife, with its carved 
 ivory handle attract your eye. 
 
 (87—91) 
 
92 
 
 THE FOURTH OF Jt'LY, I T70 
 
 It is that face, with the black hair falling 
 back from its brow along the neck, from under 
 the wide shadow of a slouching hat ; it is that 
 eye that seems to burn with light, as it rests 
 upon you ; it is that olive cheek now redden- 
 ing with emotion, now pale as marble ; it is 
 that mouth, which wreathes in a smile, or 
 curves in scorn, vphich now speaks in low 
 tones, were music wins you, and again, utters 
 its deep voice, that indicates a soul conscious 
 of power ! 
 
 It is upon that face, moulded, not with the 
 regularity of an ancient statue, but with firm 
 and characteristic outlines ; the face framed in 
 the shadow of the hat of dark felt, with low 
 crown and drooping brim, that you gaze, in 
 the quiet evening hour. 
 
 One limb crossed over the other, the right 
 arm resting on the trunk of th fallen tree, the 
 head downcast, and the dark eyes fixed upon 
 the sward, the young man seemed absorbed in 
 thought, while the old hunter stood erect by 
 his side. 
 
 After a pause that lasted some five minutes, 
 the old man turned and gazed upon his young 
 comrade. 
 
 "It's queer — reg'lar queer !" he said, with 
 a slight laugh, and then paused as if waiting 
 •for an answer. 
 
 The young man was silent. 
 
 "I say it's queer — it's particular strange 
 
 — I mought say ridiculous ! To think that 
 you and I have been out in the woods, time 
 off and on, for six months back, and yet nei- 
 tlier of us knows where the t'other lives, nor 
 even his name !" 
 
 " What need of a name?" said the your.g 
 man, without raising his eyes from the ground 
 
 — "we met last winter, among the wilds of 
 the Susquehanna. We hunted together, 
 shared the same rude meal, after our day's 
 .toil, and at night slept side by side, on a bed 
 of withered leaves. You called me Walter — 
 [ called you Michael. What need of other 
 names ? We met and were friends !" 
 
 Walter played listlessly with the handle of 
 his knife, as he spoke. Still his eye.s were 
 fixed upon the sod. 
 
 " But Walter, don't you know yer voice 
 betrays you ? — Yer speech is not the speech 
 of the backwoodsman, but the talk of the city 
 and the village. Yer rifle and knife, aye yer 
 
 dress itself, don't speak much for yer poverty. 
 Yer hands are too white, yer skin too fair, to 
 fancy for a minute that you've lived long in 
 the woods. But, howsomever it is I c^n't 
 tell, but I like ye, and have liked ye, since the 
 day—" 
 
 " When, away yondur on the Susquehanna, 
 my rifle missed fire, and the panther sprang at 
 my throat. Your aim was good, your eye 
 true, or I should have been a dead man. 
 Michael, you saved my life, and there's my 
 hand ! " 
 
 The old hunter extended his horny palm, 
 and grasped the delicate fingers of his young 
 comrade, with an iron clutch. 
 
 " A month ago we parted at least an hun- 
 dred miles from this — to-day vi-^e meet again, 
 here in the woods of Wissahikon — " 
 
 Walter raised his full dark eyes. A strange 
 smile passed over his face. 
 
 " It would be interesting for us to compare 
 our history for the past month," he said. 
 " This is a quiet hour. The evening air is 
 cool, delicious. These old woods make a man 
 feel on better terms with himself and the world. 
 And the sound of the waters, lulling gently on 
 the ear, seem like the voices of other days, tell- 
 ing of the joys, the sorrows, that are past and 
 gone. Come, Michael, begin — tell us the 
 history of your life for the past thirty days." 
 
 The young man started, as he witnessed the 
 strange effect of his words. Michael stood 
 before him trembling, as with an ague chill, his 
 sunburnt face writhing in every chord, while 
 his eyes blazed with that panther glare, which 
 made the heart beat quicker to behold. 
 
 " Tell you the history of the past month ?" 
 he said, in a voice and with a manner entirely 
 different from his usual rough, backwoodsman 
 way. " There are some things, young man, 
 that draw the knife from the belt, and raise the 
 rifle to the shoulder. Things that it wont do 
 to talk about, not even in a whisper ! Deeds, 
 aye, I say it, deeds that make the blood run 
 cold. But," and he advanced a step, while 
 that light blazed more fiercely from his eye, 
 " what do you know of my history for the past 
 month?" 
 
 The young man started to his feet. He ex- 
 tended his hand — 
 
 " Nothing, Michael — not a word, not even 
 a whisper," he said, examining the face of the 
 
OR THE DECLARATION AND THE SIGNERS. 
 
 93 
 
 old man with a searching glance. " I meant 
 not to rouse one bitter memory in your heart. 
 Come, sit down by me ; I will," and that 
 strange smile passed over his face — "I will 
 tell you the story of my life for the past thirty 
 days." 
 
 The old man did not reply, but, taking the 
 young man's hand within his own, he led liim 
 for some few paces along the woods. 
 
 " Look thar !" he said ; in his usual rough 
 voice, " thar is my home !" 
 
 Far down the woods, through a vista that 
 extended among the trunks of massive trees, 
 the young man looked and saw a quiet cottage 
 with a garden, blooming from its door to the 
 verge of a calm, unruffled glimpse of water. 
 
 The woods, through which he gazed, were 
 wrapt in thick shadow ; but the roof of that 
 cottage, resting between two rocks, gleamed 
 brightly in the setting sun. Above it swelled 
 the sea of forest leaves, below sparkled the still 
 Wissahikon — it was like a picture framed in 
 waving leaves and glancing waters. 
 
 " Thar's my home !" 
 
 " Your home !" echoed Walter, hiding his 
 face in his hands, and turning away from the 
 old man, while he shook with emotion. 
 
 Michael gazed upon him with unfeigned 
 surprise. 
 
 "And ain't it a purty home ? Did you ever 
 see a nicer bit of happiness hid away in the 
 woods than that ? O, if you could but see the 
 angel that dwells thar with me, and keeps house 
 when I am out among the woods, and puts her 
 soft hands on my forehead, when the — aye, I 
 must speak it — when the dark hour comes 
 on me ; if you could but see her and know 
 her you would worship her !" 
 
 Walter raised his face. All traces of emo- 
 tion had vanished, but he was very pale and 
 his eyes shone with peculiar lustre. 
 
 "That's your home!" he calmly said, 
 " what a beautiful home it is ! " 
 
 " Perhaps he has his memories, too!" the 
 old hunter muttered, "God knows!" 
 
 The young man took his hand, and whis- 
 pered, " Michael look yonder ! " 
 
 Michael gazed far down that vista, and 
 among the huge forest trees, and with hushed 
 breath beheld a sight as strange as it was beau- 
 tiful. 
 
 From the door of that cottage home came 
 
 forth a young girl clad in a peasant garb — a 
 light boddice, fitting close to her bosom, a dark 
 skirt, flowing to her feet — with her brown 
 hair blowing lightly about her face in the even- 
 ing breeze. 
 
 She tripped along the garden, and stood by 
 the water's edge. 
 
 Her eyes were cast down the stream, her 
 bending form assumed an attitude of anxious 
 expectati(<n. 
 
 Presently, gliding from the trees, a light ca- 
 noe broke into view, and in it stood erect the 
 form of a woman, attired in a dark robe, with 
 her face glowing in the warm light of the fading 
 day. 
 
 She leapt lightly on the shore — the young 
 girl seemed to start with surprise, but this wo- 
 man in the dark attire seized her hands and 
 urged her gently into the cottage. 
 
 They disappeared together, and the closing 
 doors concealed them from the view. 
 
 Had Michael and his young comrade beheld 
 the scene, which then transpired within the 
 cottage home, they would have felt their hearts 
 beat quicker, tlieir blood bound, like liquid fire, 
 through their veins ! 
 
 But they did not witness that scene; they 
 only saw the young girl, and the dark-robed 
 woman, go in the cottage door together. 
 
 For a moment Michael and his comrade 
 stood in silence, gazing in each other's faces, 
 as though spell-bound by that sight. 
 
 " That's strange ! " at last the old man said, 
 — "Who the lady in the dark dress can be is 
 more than I can tell ! I never knew before that 
 the child was acquainted with anybody in the 
 world, save me ! Ah, now I think of it, that 
 visiter is the rich widow who resides in the 
 large mansion on t'other side of the Wissa- 
 hikon ! But how came she to know my child ?" 
 
 " She is your child ? " cried Walter in a 
 hurried tone — " your daughter ? " 
 
 " My Daughter ? Hah ! What do you 
 mean ? My Daughter !" 
 
 You can see the old man's check assume the 
 hue of ashes, his lip is livid and his eyes are 
 fixed upon the ground. 
 
 " Young man, you have touched the bitter 
 chord agin ! Don't you know that it's better 
 to cut one's heart with your knife, than to do it 
 with a word ?" 
 
 " Pardon Michael, pardon ! I have known 
 
94 
 
 THE FOURTH OF JULY, 1776, 
 
 you hitherto hut as the rough child of the for- 
 est. Now, that I behold in you the owner 
 of this beautiful home, the father of this — " 
 
 "Father?" hurriedly interrupted old Mi- 
 chael. 
 
 " Who told you I wa^ father to that an- 
 gel girl ? Sixteen years ago I brought her to 
 to that place, an innocent and smiling babe-! — 
 Sixteen years ago I built that home ! For six- 
 teen years she has grown up in solitude, and 
 every hour of those years grown deeper into 
 my heart ! Yes, it is sixteen years and one 
 month, since that night. " 
 
 Again the old man paused, his countenance 
 betraying the traces of mental agony. While 
 'Walter, leaning his noble form against yonder 
 tree, with his head downcast, gazed fixedly in 
 the face of his comrade, you see that aged com- 
 rade clutch his rifle with quivering fingers, 
 dash the stock into the earth, and then pace 
 wildly to and fro. 
 
 Again he spoke in that tone so different 
 from his rough backwoodsman voice. He 
 tipoke not as much to Walter, as to his own 
 soul, not so much with the consciousness of 
 a human eye gazing upon his face, as the 
 Eyk of God reading his soul. 
 
 " What — what have I not done to wash out 
 the memory of that night ! O, it was pitiful, 
 — it was horrible! Satan himself could not 
 have painted so dark a picture, nor planned so 
 accursed a deed! A home in flames — two 
 dead bodies thrown beside the hearth, a husband 
 and his wife ! Both young — one noble in his 
 manly vigor, the other beautiful in her wo- 
 manly purity ! And beside the body of the 
 dead husband a litde boy stood weeping; 
 over the cold bosom of the dead wife a baby 
 crept, pressing if, lips to that font which 
 was dried forever ! And the wretch who led 
 on the midnight assassins, who leagued with 
 red savages and white robbers, came, at dead 
 of night, to lay this home in ashes, came 
 v/ith his face blackened, the torch in one hand, 
 the knife in the other. Who was he ? A 
 fiend? No, a Brother ! " 
 
 He stood, with his outstretched hands, quiv- 
 ering in every finger, his eyes glaring in the 
 sod. The white foam frothed about his livid 
 lips. 
 
 Walter stood appalled by the violence of the 
 old man's emotion. 
 
 You may behold him, leaning against yonder 
 tree, his face manifesting in every outline, sur- 
 prise mingled with horror. 
 
 "That house, blackened and in ruins, lie.s 
 two hundred miles away in a green valley of 
 the Alleghanies. It stands there as itstoodfor 
 years, a black witness of unnatural guilt. On 
 its hearthstone the blood has never faded ; from 
 its walls the ghosts of the dead have never 
 gone — no, not for an hour! And to that 
 ruined house, once every year — in June, when 
 the trees are in blossom, in June, whei. 
 the murder was done — there comes the form 
 of the murderer to gaze upon the traces of his 
 crimes. For one month, day and night, he 
 crouches down upon the hearthstone, gazing 
 upon that mark of blood, that hideous blotch 
 of red that glares in his face, as though it had 
 a thousand eyes, all fired by the same curse ! 
 
 " For sixteen years, on the return of June, 
 the murderer has been dragged by invisible 
 bands over mountain and flood to that blasted 
 house ! For sixteen years he has been forced 
 by voices that speak from the air, and speak to 
 his heart, like the anathema of the archangel, 
 to write a confession of his crime, and place it 
 in the dead woman's grave ! Sixteen confes- 
 sions are there ; sixteen records of that bloody 
 deed !" 
 
 His look was terrible, as towering erect, he 
 shook his clenched hands in the air, while his 
 eyes rolled and his mouth frothed around the 
 writhing lips with scattered drops of foam and 
 blood. 
 
 " Who says that repentance can wash out 
 Clime ' You may forsake the world, bury 
 yourself from human eyes, throw wealth and 
 rank to the winds, put on humble attire an'' 
 pray all day in the woods, and groan all i^'i 
 in the desert where no eye but the eye of \ 
 can hear, and still the faces of the murdl 
 will never cease to glare at you, and r| 
 their lips as though they would speak 
 could not ! You may take the child fromt 
 breast of the mother, bear it uway from I 
 scene of crime, rear it up to womanhool 
 purity and virtue, and yet thci child will] 
 day learn your crime — that child will liv: 
 curse the man whom it has called father, 
 hiss in his ears the words : " Thou diihm 
 on a dark night.' Thou didst it when] 
 was still J Thou didst it when husband ol 
 
OR THE DECLARATION AND THE SIGNERS/ 
 
 95 
 
 wife lay wrapped in each other's arms! 
 Then thou didst murder my Mother ! " 
 
 That frenzied voice sank into an accent of 
 overwhelming agony. 
 
 " To be cursed by her — to be cursed by — 
 Rose !" 
 
 You may have seen a hug;e rock, precipi- 
 tated from an immense height upon the void 
 belovi^. Descending in a straight line, it strikes 
 a lofty tree, and ere you can draw another 
 breath, crushes it, from the top to the roots, 
 into one mass of ruins. 
 
 As though he had been that tree, as though 
 the fallen rock had, in its dread career, taken 
 life and plunged upon his skull, the old man, 
 Michael, rushed to the earth; so sudd.n was 
 his fall, so stiffened and lifeless upon the sod 
 he lay. 
 
 Walter knelt beside him. He gazed upon 
 the pale features and glassy eyeballs, in si- 
 lence. The emotion which had but a moment 
 ago shaken the old man's frame, seemed 
 now to have passed into the veins of his com- 
 rade, for every feature of his face was in mo- 
 tion ; with his hand pressed nervously 
 against his forehead, he gazed into the coun- 
 tenance of the insensible man. 
 
 The sun had gone down, and the shadows, 
 cast by the trees, in long columns of darkness, 
 began to grow wider and deeper. The forest 
 was still as a deserted cathedral. Not the 
 sound of distant water, nor the rustling of the 
 wind among the trees, disturbed the brooding 
 silence of the Wissahikon woods.. 
 
 And let me tell you, to be among those 
 
 woods when that silence so awfully spiritual 
 
 •-^prvatles the air, while the foliage, spreading 
 
 makes noonday seem like twilight, is 
 
 "oul grow nearer to the other world. 
 
 heart feels sad, you know not 
 
 n the memories of your past life, 
 
 fOM. Then through the long ar- 
 
 bowery glades, half-closing your 
 
 seem to behold the forms of beloved 
 
 since dead, gliding slowly to and fro. 
 
 this young man, whom we have 
 
 y that name — with an eye, always 
 brighter in time of danger; a heart, 
 l>bbed tumultuously with passion, or 
 h the love of the beautifid and holy ; 
 ever swayed by impulse, capable at 
 the highest heroism and the purest self- 
 
 r 
 
 *o 
 
 denial, felt the influence of this evenmg hour. 
 His thoughts were dark to agony ! 
 We dare not picture their nature ; but, as he 
 bent over the insensible man, he seemed to be- 
 hold two faces, gliding along the twilight sky, 
 with wreaths of mists about their clearly de- 
 fined outlines. 
 
 One, the face of a sinless girl, who5e young 
 face and tranquil eyes seemed to woo him from 
 the world and its cares and fears, into these 
 dear solitudes of Wissahikon. The love of 
 that maiden face was stainless ; the passion of 
 those clear deep eyes undiraned by the mists 
 of sensual feeling. 
 
 The other, the fece of matured loveliness, 
 with ambition gleaming from those dark eyes, 
 the love of the world and the world's feverish 
 joys burning in the vermillion glow of each 
 ohve cheek. That high brow, that dark hair, 
 floating in showers of glossy blackness over 
 the half-bared bosom, that red lip, curling with 
 scorn, or parting with passion, completed the 
 picture of this strange, yes — the terrible face. 
 " One woos me to the shadows of the quiet 
 woods, and asks of me a love as virgin as 
 these solitudes ! The other plunges me into 
 the tumults of the world, bids me grapple with 
 the weapons of ambition, and share the throb- 
 bings of a love that beats with the madness of 
 fever and wine ! His daughter ! She, so 
 proud, so distant, whom I have only seen afar 
 off", and by glimpses ; she seeks the presence 
 of the peasant maid ! What can it portend ?" 
 As he kneels there, absorbed in his thoughts, 
 a singular incident occurs. 
 
 Do you see that strange form, with long and 
 matted hair descending to the broad shoulders, 
 and folds of crape veiling the face, move noise- 
 lessly from tree to tree 1 
 
 As you look, it crouches on the ground — 
 and crawls, snake-like, along the sod; — it 
 reaches the fallen trunk, against which the sil- 
 ver mounted rifle leans. Beware, Walter, for 
 there is treachery in the soundless movements 
 of that uncouth shape ! But he does not see 
 it ; no, he does not behold his rifle grasped by 
 those brawny hands, the pan unclosed, and 
 the priming blown from beneath the flint. 
 
 In a moment the rifle is replaced, and the 
 form of this unknown enemy moves noiselessly 
 away. 
 
 Still Walter knelt beside the form of the in- 
 
96 
 
 THE FOURTH OF JULY, 1776, 
 
 sensible man; still the vision of those two faces 
 occupied his soul. 
 
 As his thoughts thus rose in singular confu- 
 sion to his lips, he was roused from his reve- 
 rie by a distant sound, resembling the cry of 
 fear or agony. It rose, it swelled, it came 
 through the silence of the woods like the voice 
 of a spirit. AV alter felt a shudder peri'ade his 
 frame. There was something almost super- 
 natural in this sudden cry, breaking so abruptly 
 on the death-like silence of the woods. 
 
 He started to his feet, and grasped his rifle I 
 Again that cry ! 
 
 With a bound he hurried up the ascent of 
 the steep, covered by those huge old forest trees. 
 That cry seemed ringing like a knell of death 
 in his ears. The trees, the rocks, a long slope 
 of level sward, flew behind him ; and his 
 course was presently interrupted by the boughs 
 of a beachen tree, which descending to the 
 very sod, formed a wall of green leaves across 
 his path. 
 
 Again that cry ! Not ten feet distant it was 
 heard. Walter plunged through the foliage of 
 the beache i tree, and started back with a sud- 
 den bound, as he beheld a spectacle that made 
 his heart beat as with pulsations of flame. 
 
 A beautiful woman, kneeling on the sod, her 
 bosom bared, her longhair falling to her shoul- 
 ders, with hands and eyes upraised, in a trem- 
 bling gesture of prayer ! 
 
 Aljove her — standing with his back to the 
 snn — you see the figure of a thick-set and 
 muscular man, who lifts a rifle above the head 
 of the kneeling woman. As he turns toward 
 the light, you see his face, covered 
 with folds of crape, while from beneath his 
 rough cap of fur, long locks of draggled hair 
 wave in the light. Altogether, as he stands 
 there, he looks the bravo and outcast, fitted 
 by a dark experience for any deed of crime. ' 
 
 "Your gold; — come, no delay! Them 
 ear-rings, and that jewel on yer bosom ! Come, 
 I say !" 
 
 The rifle, grasped by the barrel, like a huge 
 club, rose above the kneeling woman's head. 
 
 At this moment, Walter sprang from the 
 foliage and confronte<l the ruffian. 
 
 " Back !" he cried, and levelled his rifle. 
 
 The Outcast only rested the stock of his 
 rifle on the sod, and a low laugh came from 
 the folds of crape which enveloped his face. 
 
 " Fire ! " he said, with that low, growlinp 
 soulid of laughter. 
 
 From yon aperture among the trees, the last 
 glow of the western skv gives a purple light 
 to the scene. You see that craped face, 
 framed in its bushy locks of hair, that thick- 
 set form, with the right arm wound round the " 
 barrel of the rifle. Walter starting forward, 
 his rifle raised to his eye, his manly form dis- 
 closed in all its delicacy of outline by the dress 
 of dark velvet, relieved by the green of the 
 trees. Between these figures, the form of the 
 kneeling woman, her beautiful countenance 
 pale with suspense, her bared bosom throbbing 
 with quivering emotion. In the tranquil light 
 of this still hour, hei dark hair, showering so 
 freely over the white shoulders, assumed the 
 purple tint of the twilight. 
 
 "Fire!" cried the Outcast; and again that 
 laugh broke on the air. 
 
 Walter applied his finger to the trigger — 
 there was a harsh, jarring sound, but no flash 
 in the pan — no report from the tube. 
 
 " Ha, ha, ha ! That for your rifle ! " And, 
 with the celerity of a lightning flash, he seized 
 the jewelled chain from the neck of the lady, 
 and stood erect, calmly leaning on his rifle. 
 
 Walter at a moment's glance, saw that he 
 must prepare for a desperate conflict. Dashing 
 his rifle on the sod, he drew his hunting-knife, 
 and advanced upon the bravo. 
 
 "Come," he growled, "I'll tame your 
 blood!" and, without moving an inch from 
 his position, seemed about to spring on his 
 antagonist, like a rattlesnake on the unsuspect- 
 ing victim. 
 
 He raised his arm to strike that unknown 
 man, but the kneeling woman bounding from 
 the sod, flung her arms about his neck. " Save 
 me ! " she cried, and lay fainting on his_ 
 bi'east. Her long hair streaming over his face, 
 for a moment blinded his vision; with a sud- 
 den movement, he swept aside those silken 
 tresses. 
 
 The bravo, the Outcast, was gone! 
 
 But there, in the arms of Walter, the hunter, 
 in this deep evening hour, lay the form of a 
 beautiful woman, whose matured loveliness 
 was enveloped in a olose-fitting habit; whose 
 bosom, lately heaving with emotion, now 'ay 
 white and pulseless beneath his gaze ; whose 
 arms, round and full, were wound about his 
 
OR THE DECLARATION AND THE SIGNERS. 
 
 97 
 
 neck, while her dark hair streamed in glossy- 
 masses over his shoulders. 
 
 A wildly beautiful woman ; a voluptuous 
 organization ; a face, rich olive in hue, with 
 the lids closed and the lashes resting on the 
 cheek, displaying in its calm forehead, marked 
 brows, and firm lips, the traces of a bold and 
 ambitious nature ! 
 
 "It is the vision which for a month past has, 
 day after day, flitted across my gaze, from the 
 far distance ! " he said, and felt his temple 
 burn, his veins swell as with liquid flame. 
 
 Wishing to gaze yet more clearly on that 
 beautiful face, he turned toward the western sky. 
 
 As he turns — but no! it is a fancy, a 
 dream! — the fainting woman uncloses her 
 eyes, while a smile of triumph wreaths her 
 proud lips. It is for a moment only. When 
 Walter looks again, the lips are smileless, the 
 eyes closed as if in death. 
 
 Walter gazed, for a few moments, upon that 
 face motionless as marble, while his very soul 
 seemed lost in the vortex of a whirlpool. His 
 eyes swam, his temples throbbed, he could 
 feel his heart beat against his bosom. 
 
 At last a soft flush pervaded her olive cheek ; 
 her lids were slowly raised, the full blaze of 
 her dark eyes rested upon Walter's face. 
 
 With a bound, she sprang from his arms ; 
 even in the dim shadowy light of that hour, 
 Walter beheld the rich blushes ripen over her 
 face and bosom. 
 
 " Thanks, good sir — you have saved, per- 
 chance, my life," she said, in her musical 
 voice, yet with a manner of calm dignity. 
 
 Walter beheld her standing in the centre of 
 that forest bower, and as the light of her eyes, 
 the expression of her commanding face, dawned 
 upon him, through the gathering gloom, he 
 start-ed with surprise. For a month or more, 
 this strange woman, seen through the vistas of 
 the forest from afar, had filled him with a 
 bewildering interest. Now he beheld her face, 
 he felt the light of those eyes which flashed 
 with all the consciousness of intellectual and 
 voluptuous power. 
 
 "Lady Marion!" he exclaimed. "We 
 have met before ! In the Court of St. James, 
 surrounded by a circle of admirers, glittering 
 with stars and coronets, I last beheld you. 
 Now, in this lone forest "' 
 
 "Ah! I remember well your face, though I 
 
 never knew you to converse with you. Your 
 name was whispered among the courtiers — 
 indeed, the King himself stated that wealth and 
 chivalry had not often found a noblfer represen- 
 tative than Reginald " 
 
 " No names, lady ! " And Walter bowed 
 low as he spoke. "In the forest, ha, ha! we 
 are but plain man and woman, you will be 
 pleased to remember!" 
 
 " Did you not first set the example? 'Lady 
 Marion,' indeed ! Doubtless you wonder to 
 find me here, in this wild place. I frankly 
 confess that you are the last person I should 
 have expected to behold — shall I say hoped? 
 — here in the woods of the Wissahikon ! 
 
 She advanced, and, with that smile playing 
 over her face — oh! you should have seen its 
 strange, mysterious fascination ! — she lightly 
 laid her hand upon his arm. Walter started, 
 for her touch penetrated his veins like electric 
 fire. 
 
 ' " Would you know my mission, in these 
 dark, wild woods? Would you solve the 
 mysteries, not only of a poor, weak woman's 
 life, but of government and war — -would you 
 achieve the freedom of your native land — the 
 deliverance of the soil from the clouds which 
 overshadow it ? Come, then, to-night, at the 
 hour of ten, to yonder house, on the opposite 
 shore of Wissahikon !" 
 
 " I will !" said Walter, scarce knowing 
 what he spoke. 
 
 There was the sound of a heavy footstep, 
 and Michael — whom we left insensibh upon 
 the sod — advanced from the shelter of the 
 leaves. 
 
 " Brave soldier, I have sought for you, 
 through the woods, and your home!" cried 
 Lady Marion, confronting the aged hunter, 
 who stood surprised at her address, and yet 
 impressed, he scarce knew why, by the sound 
 of that low musical voice. 
 
 " You fought in Braddock's war, under 
 Washington ?" 
 
 " I did ! " 
 
 " You. would serve Washington? Rescue 
 "him from the perils that beset him ; from the 
 plots of his enemies ?" 
 
 " With my life !" 
 
 And the old hunter brought his rifle down 
 on the sod, by way of emphasis. 
 
 " Come with me, then, to my mansion on 
 
98 
 
 THE FODRTH OF JULY, 1770, 
 
 yonder hill ! These are strange times, when 
 a woman must forget the modesty of her sex, 
 in the service of her country ; when the old 
 man must feel his withered arm grow stror.g 
 again, to defend that country ! Come ! 
 
 Even the old hunter, whom we have lately 
 seen writhing in convulsions — the fierce 
 struggle of bodily or mental disease — felt the 
 magic of that woman's look and voice. 
 
 " I'm with you !" he said ; " Washington ! 
 Is he in danger? I saw (he bullets rattle 
 against the blade of his sword, on the day of 
 Braddock's defeat — I'll try to keep them from 
 his heart, now that his enemies encompass 
 him ! But first, young man " — he turned to 
 Walter, and whispered in his ear — " You 
 saw me in that fit, — just now 1 Eh, comrade ? 
 Notice anything particular ? I'm apt to say 
 queer things — you overheard, we — " 
 
 He paused, while his eyes flashed deadly 
 light ; he paused, hesitated, as though he wished 
 Walter to complete the sentence. 
 
 " Pardon me, Michael, if I left you for an 
 instant!" the young man answered, in an even 
 voice, and with a composed manner — "This 
 lady was in danger, or I would not have for- 
 saken you, in such a moment." 
 
 " So you overheard nothing, eh ? But come, 
 Walter, I like you, and have liked you, ever 
 since the day when I saved }'Our life. I have 
 a daughter — you understand an old man's 
 feelings. I may die suddenly, some day ; be 
 picked off by a bullet, or fall from a clifT. 
 This child must not be left to the mercy of a 
 heartless world ' Join hands with me, and 
 swear before the God who sees and will judge 
 — swear to protect my child !" 
 
 Walter turned his face away from the faint 
 glow of light which shone from the western 
 sky, and extended his hand. 
 
 " Your hand trembles !" whispered the old 
 hunter. 
 
 " Still, I swear !" 
 
 " You swear to protect my child, even 
 Rose, not only from the touch of harm, but 
 from the wiles of the seducer, the arts of the 
 libertine ! Ah ! why does your hand shrink 
 from my grasp ? Why do you turn away ? 
 Can it be, that I have been mistaken in you ? 
 Are you afraid to act the part of a brother to 
 the young and helpless girl ?" 
 
 Walter stood in the shadows, his face buried 
 
 in his hands. Well for him that it was so 
 dark, that f6rest bower! AVell -for him that 
 the keen eye of the old man could not read the 
 agony of his face ! 
 
 But the woman who stands in the back- 
 ground, her bosom swelling beneath her robe, 
 her finger to her lip, her eyes glancing trium- 
 phant fire — what means her agitation ? 
 
 "I have been mistaken — you are not a 
 man of courage !" said the old man, turning 
 away. 
 
 Walter sprang forward and grasped his hand. 
 
 " Pardon me ! It was but a bitter memory , 
 of a sad story 1 once heard, that caused this 
 apparent reluctance ! Your hand ! I swear 
 to protect your daughter — even Rose — from 
 the touch of harm, from the wiles of the sedu- 
 cer, the arts of the libertine !" 
 
 And while the old man grasped the hand of 
 this unknown comrade, whom we have heard 
 addressed by the names of Walter and Regi- 
 nald, there, half buried in the shadows, stood 
 the Lady Marion, her face overspread with 
 smiles, the light of a strange passion flashing 
 from her eyes ! 
 
 CHAPTER SECOND. 
 
 The moon, rising over yonder precipitous 
 ascent of woods, shines down upon the cottage 
 home of Michael, the hunter. 
 
 So, perchance, a thousand years ago she 
 shone, when these trees encircled mansions of 
 marble ; when the banners of a strange and 
 forgotten people fluttered in a summer air, as 
 bland as the breeze which now makes music 
 among the leaves ; when, beside these waters, 
 grouped the Priests and the white-robed maid, 
 ens, swelling into the deep vault of heaven, 
 their sacrificial song ! 
 
 Walter advanced from the shadows of the 
 trees, and s'ood upon a rock that towers there 
 at this hour ; his dark attire and pale face, dis. 
 closed in the light of the rising moon. You 
 see his face upraised, its pale hue giving unna- 
 tural radiance to his clear dark eye ; you per- 
 ceive the traces of tears upon that bold cheek, 
 and yet the resolve of a strong will speaks .in 
 that firm mouth and rounded chin. 
 
 It was a very beautiful sight that he. saw, by 
 the pale light of the moon. Not a palace of 
 
OR THE DECLARATION AND THE SIGNERS. 
 
 99 
 
 white marble, nor yet. one of those red brick 
 mansions which freeze the soul out of you, 
 with their bright pink walls and green window- 
 shutters ; but a little structure of wood and 
 stone, nestling between two huge rocks. How 
 the vines waved and the flowers bloomed upon 
 those grey old piles of granite ! It was .but a 
 little structure, with a single window, and a 
 steep roof that sheltered from the sun and rain 
 three little .rooms ; but, for all that, it was a 
 "home." 
 
 A home, with trees on trees around, above 
 it ; a home, with a still stream flowing gently 
 by ; a home, with a garden spreading from its 
 door down to the water's edge; a home, with 
 roof of boards and straw, hidden by leaves and 
 fragrant with honeysuckles ; a home, containing 
 a treasure more precious than the gold of Mex- 
 ico, or the diamonds of Hindoostan ! 
 
 That treasure — an immortal soul — locked 
 up within the body of a beautiful and sinless 
 
 girl! 
 
 Walter stood gazing upon it, wrapped in his 
 thoughts, when a footstep resounded by his 
 side. 
 
 He turned, and beheld the form of a negro, 
 his white eyeballs and ivory teeth shining from 
 a face as black- as ink and glossy as silk. He 
 stood there, six feet high in his boots, his 
 broad chest enveloped in a green coat, faced 
 with gold ; his thick wool surmounted by a cap 
 of darkfiir; his limbs encased in long boots, 
 that shone like mirrors. Altogether, he was as 
 fine a specimen of the African, with his flat 
 nose, big lips, and protruding eyes, as you 
 might see in any court of justice, on the occa- 
 nion of the trial of a fugitive slave. It may 
 also be remarked, that the muzzles of two sil- 
 ver mounted pistols protruded from the breast 
 of his dark green coat. 
 
 " I is here, Massa !" said the dark gentle- 
 man, with a bow that would have done honor 
 to a courtier of Versailles. 
 
 " Ah ! is that you, Bram ?" 
 
 "It am de rale nigga Massa"! 
 
 " Is everything ready ? You remember my 
 orders! First, the Purple Chamber, in my 
 city mansion, was to be prepared for my recep- 
 tion : — have you obeyed my commands ?" 
 
 " Y-e-s, Massa !" 
 
 •At twelve o'clock to-night, the carriage is 
 to be waiting, in the narrow lane, beyond the 
 
 Wissahikon, about half a mile from this place." 
 
 " It will be dar !" 
 
 " Bram, you must not express any surprise 
 in case a young gentleman, somewhat slender 
 in form, and clad in a plain dark dress, should 
 appear at twelve to-night, and enter the 
 carriage I The moment he enters, you will 
 drive with all speed to the city, and lead this 
 young gentleiman up stairs into the Purple 
 Chamber." 
 
 " Dis nigga nebbaw fails to do dat which 
 Massa commands. No, he does not, dat he 
 don't!" 
 
 " The young gentleman will be known to 
 you, not so much by his dress, as by the white 
 scarf which binds his eyes — " 
 
 " De grashus goodness ! Blinefold, eh ? 
 Bress a poor darkey's stars ! Dat reminds roe 
 of Paris. A berry fine place is Paris, only 
 dem folks do talk so partiklar queer. And 
 den dey aint got no common sense ! Laws ! 
 dey treats a dark brown colored gemman just 
 like a white person, widout de 'propriate dis- 
 tinction ob color ! " 
 
 " You have heard my commands. Remem- 
 ber, the happiness — perchance, the life — of 
 your master depends upon the manner in 
 which you follow them. Go!" 
 
 Without a word the liveried negro disap- 
 peared, and was lost to view among the trees. 
 
 We will now watch the movements of Walter 
 with peculiar interest. 
 
 Descending from the rock, he draws forth 
 from among the bushes, which dip from the 
 bank into the waves, an Indian canoe, hewn 
 by the hands of old Michael from the trunk of 
 a massive tree. 
 
 You see him enter the canoe ; he stands 
 erect, in the light of the moon, his pale face 
 betraying unequivocal signs of emotion. One 
 movement of the slender oar, and the fragile 
 barge glides noiselessly over the waters, and 
 rests beside the opposite shore. 
 
 Walter leaps upon the bank. He stands in 
 the garden, which blooms along the level 
 space. He listens ! All is still ; the clear 
 moonlight falls upon the latticed window of 
 the cottage, but repeals no traces of the pre- 
 sence of any human thing within its walls. 
 
 He advances toward the door, his heart 
 beating quicker, his strong frame trembling in 
 every nerve. Still no sound ! 
 
100 
 
 THE FOURTH OF JDLY, 1776. 
 
 His hand is upon the wooden latch — for 
 a moment he pauses in painful suspense — he 
 crosses the threshold of that home. 
 
 All is silent there. Through the small win- 
 dow, a belt of moonlight falls along the outer 
 floor. All beside is dark. 
 
 Through that darkened room, Walter moves 
 with noiseless footsteps and extended hands. 
 
 A sob, low and gushing, as if arising from 
 the heart, disturbs the silence. At the same 
 moment, his hand touches a woman's cheek, 
 and feels her tears. 
 
 "Rose!" 
 
 All is dark ; he cannot see her, yet a smull 
 hand is laid within his own, and a face is 
 pressed against his bosom. 
 
 " You are unhappy ! You weep " 
 
 There was no reply; not in words, yet 
 the hand that was pressed within his own — 
 the young face, resting on his bosom — spoke 
 that universal language which Love first 
 learned in Paradise. 
 
 In a moment, Walter gently disengaged her 
 arm from his neck, hurried into the next cham- 
 ber, and returned, bearing a light in his hands. 
 
 Then it might be seen that the Rose of 
 WissAHiKON was transcendantly beautiful ! 
 
 She bloomed in one corner of the small 
 room, her form resting upon a huge old arm- 
 chair, fashioned of solid oak. Her cheek 
 upon her hand ; her eyes upraised, she shone 
 through the chamber like an angel presence. 
 
 You would pardon this extravagance of 
 speech, had you but for a moment seen her 
 in her virgin beauty. 
 
 True, the dress which enveloped her young 
 form, was of the plainest and coarsest naaterial ; 
 true, her foot was encased in a rude shoe, 
 made of rough buckskin ; true, her bosom was 
 veiled by a plain white kerchief, and yet, for 
 all her simple dress, her beauty shone out and 
 lighted that small chamber of the forest home. 
 
 That foot, seen below the coarse skirt, was 
 so small ; that bosom, heaving beneath the 
 white kerchief, so round and full ; those arms, 
 bare from the shoulder, so like arms of alabas- 
 ter, rounded by the chisel of an inspired 
 sculptor, veined by delicate threads of azure, 
 softened by a flush like the first glow of a 
 summer morn ; that face, so fair in its hue, so 
 warm in the lips, so brilliant in the eyes, so 
 
 beautifully relieved by the rich mass of dark 
 brown hair ! 
 
 Her eyes were neither blue, nor hazel, nor 
 black. Now dark, now bright, now slowly 
 lighting up with emotion ; now flashing into 
 sudden radiance ; now gleaming dimly through 
 the half-closed lids ; now overspread with 
 moisture — even as the stars look more beau- 
 tiful througli the tears of an April shower ; 
 those eyes, always in every phase of expres- 
 sion, sent their rays home to the heart ! 
 
 The hair was brown, and yet, in one light, 
 it was black as the deep vault of a midnight , , , 
 sky ; in another, purple as the last kiss of day 
 upon the western horizon. The word auburn, 
 expressing that delicious combination of colors 
 which imparts such divine beauty to the hair 
 of a lovely woman, comes nearer the truth. 
 
 Her eyes full of clear, deep light: her skin 
 white as marble, with the young blood speak- 
 ing out in each cheek ; her hair auburn in hue 
 and plainly gathered back from her face — just 
 as the painters have pictured our Mother Mary, 
 so bloomed this young girl in that cottage 
 chamber. 
 
 Her hair was bound in a coil at the back of 
 her head, and yet the band which clasped it, 
 once untied, it covered her — the neck, the bo- 
 som and the form, which would have been 
 voluptuous, had not the eyes been so pure — 
 it covered her like a veil, that beautiful flowing 
 hair. 
 
 Walter stood on the threshold, surveying in 
 silent admiration this lovely girl. The same 
 light that reveals his form, clad in a hunting 
 garb of dark velvet, shines upon the young 
 maiden with the light kerchief around her neck, 
 the dark skirt upon her form. 
 
 Her eyes, dim with tears, encountered his 
 earnest ffaze. 
 
 Shall we translate the thought which gave 
 such a deep melancholy to his face ? 
 
 "A miracle? This young and beautiful 
 girl reared alone in these woods from her ear- 
 liest infancy ! her only companion an old man, 
 who is now rough as any forester in his speech, 
 and again in the very writhings of remorse be- 
 trays the eloquence of the forum, the refinement 
 ot courtly life! Reared alone — a beautiful 
 flower blooming in the desert — the light of 
 genius shines from the eyes, the glow of edu- 
 
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 W 
 
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 (101) 
 
OR THE DECLARATION AND THE SIGNERS. 
 
 103 
 
 cation warms her face. That hand can fill the 
 canvass with flowers and forms as beautiful as 
 tnone seen in a midsummer dream — or 
 pour forth, on paper, thoughts that indicate at 
 onne the tenderness of woman, the power 
 of genius ! And yet she knows the world 
 from books alone — its cares, its customs are 
 to her but the dim phantoms of a day-break 
 dream. 
 
 So ran his thoughts, but before him ever rose 
 one question that poisoned the serenitj"^ of his 
 soul : — "7s yours the hand to tear from the 
 vase, in which it blooms, this flower, so pure, 
 so virgin? Is yours the heart to plan the 
 shame of that chaste being, the dishonor of 
 that maiden soul ? " 
 
 "Rose," he said aloud, advancing to the 
 maiden, " to-nig-ht you will leave your home. 
 A.11 is arranged. To-night you will link your 
 fate with mine ! Why do you weep ? Is it 
 because you dread the coming of that hour, 
 when gathering you to my heart, I shall whis- 
 per: Rose, you are mine!" 
 
 She slowly arose from the chair, and laid 
 her hands upon his arms. 
 
 " But a month since we met, and I am about 
 to leave father and home for you ! Only a few 
 short weeks ago I beheld you, for the first time, 
 standing at the banks of the Wissahikon, and 
 now, for you, Arthur — for you, I am about 
 to leave this dear home for ever '." 
 
 The language, which spoke from her up- 
 raised eyes, was an hundred times more 
 powerful than her words. 
 
 Walter, Reginald, Arthur ? At all events, 
 the young hunter is rich in names. 
 
 " But the Home, to which I will lead you. 
 Rose — " 
 
 " A cottage like this, in a dear, secluded val- 
 ley, with such green woods above us, such 
 a quiet stream rippling by the door ! Say, is't 
 not so, Arthur ? You wish a home like this ? 
 There we will dwell together, and after your 
 day's toil in the woods — for you are but a 
 poor hunter, Arthur — we will sit together by 
 the fireside of home, our faces glowing in the 
 same ha;llowed light !" 
 
 Arthur smiled, perchance, at the earnestness 
 of her eves, the simple pathos of her voice. 
 
 "The Purple Chamber!" he murmured, 
 and bent h=s eyes upon her glowing face. 
 
 " But my father, Arthur ! he will come and 
 visit us. Ah, why must we meet without his 
 knowledge — why this secresy ? This mys- 
 tery." 
 
 She buried her face upon his breast, and as 
 he looked down upon her glossy tresses, a dark 
 and ominous frown, gathered upon his brow. 
 Ah, Walter, Reginald, Arthur, what means 
 that frown ? Does the thought of your secret 
 meetings, for this month past — that history 
 which you were about to tell old Michael, the 
 hunter — cross your soul ? And now, old 
 Michael, and the father of this girl, are one, 
 and you dare not breathe the knowledge of 
 this fact to the maid, who throbs upon your 
 bosom, her heart pulsating with a holy, a vir- 
 gin love ? 
 
 Remember your Oath! 
 
 " But why need we leave Wissahikon ?" 
 she cried with a radiant smile upon her face i 
 " Why leave this place, where the dawn is so 
 lovely, the noon-day so serene, the twilight so 
 holy? Notapath, in these dear woods, but 
 we have trod together — I clad in the hunter's 
 dress, which you brought me — while you 
 with your rifle to your shoulder, pointed out 
 each beautiful view ; here, a delightful glimpse 
 of water ; there, a cool cascade dashing over 
 grey rocks, or, far away, the Wissahikon, shi 
 ning like a golden track of light in the setting 
 sun ! And those beautiful bowers in the forest, 
 Arthur, where there are vines blooming with 
 honeysuckles, and lillies wreathing their white 
 cups with the leaves of the rose, and the air 
 breathe perfume, and the lull of the distant 
 stream comes on the air like sweet music from 
 Heaven ! O, I have passed such happy years 
 in this dear solitude — my father so kind, so 
 good ! Yes, kind, for all he leaves me alone 
 for a month, every year; good for all that he 
 mutters to himself and writhes in agony in the 
 long hours of the night, and wanders out in the 
 storm, his head and breast bared to the blast ! 
 And we must leave it all, Arthur, to-night, we 
 must say to all thatis beautiful here. Farewell !" 
 She stood in her blushing beauty before her 
 lever, in that plain room. The sanded floor : 
 the white-washed walls, adorned with the 
 works of her pencil ; the grotesquely carved 
 table, on which her books — her Bible among 
 the rest — were placed ; the hearth, now 
 
104 
 
 THE FOURTH OF JULY, 1776, 
 
 wreathed with roses and laurel ; the low ceil- 
 ing, supported by heavy rafters — such were 
 the netails of the picture. 
 
 In the centre stood the tall form of the lover, 
 his dark dress imparting additional paleness to 
 his face ; his right arm holding the light above 
 his head, and before him her eyes upraised, 
 her heart beating warmly beneath her kerchief, 
 the young girl blushed like a rose, trembling 
 on its stem to a gende breeze. 
 
 " Do you love me ?" he said, bending upon 
 her face the full light of his eyes. 
 
 You should have seen her clear skin slowly 
 ripening from her bosom to the brow, from the 
 shoulders to the fingers, in all the crimson of 
 her virgin blood ! What woman ever lived, 
 who could hear without a quivering pulse those 
 words spoken by dark eyes, burning with light, 
 at the same instant they are spoken by a voice 
 that trembles between a whisper and a sigh, 
 those words, " Do you love me ?" ■ 
 
 Poor Rose ! 
 
 Just as you have seen a humming bird beat 
 its rainbow wings against the scarf that lightly 
 enveloped it, so her heart beat in her bosom, 
 imparting its fire to her cheek and eyes ! 
 
 How it was she knew not, but she seemed 
 to grow tovvard her lover's form, her head 
 sought his shoulder as a pillow, the band that 
 tied her hair parted, and down it fell, that 
 flowing hair, down it streamed, so glossy and 
 so beautiful in its hues, now brown, now black, 
 now purple, that waving auburn hair. 
 
 And then as the lids of her eyes half closed, 
 her lips parted until her white teeth were seen 
 
 — a line of ivory, set in vermilion ! 
 
 Arthur bent gently down, and, for the first 
 time, suffered his breath to mingle with hers, 
 as their lips throbbed together and mingle in 
 that signet of a deathless love ! 
 
 The first kiss ! 
 
 " To-nie;ht, at twelve, remember !" he said 
 
 — not in acahn, even voice, you may be sure. 
 " To-night, in your hunter's dress, at twelve, 
 remember !" and hurried from the room. 
 
 When she came to the door, she beheld him 
 standing on the opposite shore, the summer 
 moon pouring its rays upon his uncovered 
 brow. Between them rippled the stream — 
 around and above fluttered the sea of leaves, 
 W.d irom afar came the plaintive song of the 
 
 whippoor-will. He stood on the very rocK, 
 where she first beheld him a month gone bv 
 
 He flung a kiss to her as she stood in the 
 cottage door ; a warm picture in a rude frame. 
 
 Again that word, " Remember !" and he 
 was gone. 
 
 Rose looked upon the vacant rock for many 
 minutes, and then entered her home, closing 
 the door. 
 
 In fifteen minutes there came from the cot- 
 tage door a young hunter, clad in a dress which 
 was at once singularly neat and picturesque. 
 A gray frock, that fell open, disclosing the buff 
 waistcoat buttoned to the chin and descending 
 below the waist. Breeches of the same color, 
 tied at the knee, where a buckskin boot re- 
 vealed the shape of the leg. Upon his dark 
 hair, which was very glossy and luxuriant, he 
 wore a delicate cap, topped with a dainty white 
 phime. 
 
 It must be confessed that there were some 
 objections to the general harmony of the 
 costume. For example, the waistcoat was 
 drawn tightly over the bust, while it fell in 
 wrinkles about the waist, and the boot, small 
 as it v^as, was too large for the hunter's foot, 
 and the sleeves tightened about'*the arms until 
 they revealed a firm, round outline. 
 
 That hunter came stepping along the garden 
 with a kind of stealthy grace, and started back 
 with a somewhat beautiful surprise, as he be- 
 held his warm cheeks and light eyes reflected 
 in the calm mirror of Wissahikon ! 
 
 Beautiful Rose of Wissahikon ! 
 
 " The words of this strange woman, Lady 
 Marion, bewilder me ! Ah, I have a secret — 
 yes, there is one thing which I have not told 
 to Arthur ! What a strange, dark story seemed 
 upon this lady's tongue, and yet she seemed 
 afraid to tell il ! Yet, her parting words I re- 
 member well : — ' If you have a brother on 
 this side of Eternity, come to my house to- 
 night ami I laill show you his image, and 
 reveal to you the very scene in which he is 
 placed, at the momem you look upon his 
 image.'' How could she guess this yearning 
 desire of my heart, to see that brother of whom 
 my father has often spoken in his moments of 
 agony ! I will go to her home, I will dare 
 worse perils than she described, but to Dav« 
 one glance at my BnoruiiR's form ! " 
 
OR THE DECLARATION AND THE SIONERS. 
 
 105 
 
 Yes, she had a secret, which she kept locked 
 within her own bosom. Even from the lover, 
 to whom she entrusted her soul, she kept it, 
 not from any impure motive, but — it may be 
 — that with all her purity and beauty, she was 
 60 far a daughter of Eve, as to desire the pos- 
 session of one secret, only one. Then what 
 a delightful surprise she meditated for her lover, 
 when pressing- her new found brother in her 
 arras, she could say ; Brother, this is Arthur ! 
 
 Look upon her, as she enters the canoe and 
 glides down the stream. Gently, softly over 
 the tide, the moon upon her face, the boughs 
 stretching out their arms to embrace her ! 
 
 8he goes to meet the Lady Marion. In 
 the summer time I have seen a beautiful green 
 snake, spotted with drops of gold, coiling him- 
 self quietly under a rosebush, while a hum- 
 ming bird, green and gold in his soft plumage, 
 hovered near, and near and nearer, until the 
 snake disclosed his fangs, and — 
 
 But why this dark presentiment ? 
 
 Gently, soffly over the tide the boat bore 
 Rose along, while the ripples broke in music 
 on the shore. 
 
 The idea of a girl living for sixteen years 
 in the solitude of the Wissahikon, her only 
 companion a rough old man, who, with all his 
 rudeness, teaches her those arts which devel- 
 ope genius and soften the life of a woman, eren 
 as the last flash of a rainbow mellows the sky I 
 
 Very ridiculous, is it not, my dear lover of 
 common place, my dear matter of fact ? 
 
 And yet it is very beautiful ; yes, even if a 
 fiction, it is worth all your hard-featured, 
 stony-eyed Truth ! 
 
 But it is Truth. Not Truth, shining with 
 a bloody glare over the scenes of a battle, or 
 growing drowsy with the miasma of a great 
 city's crimes, but Truth as beautiful as the 
 Wissahikon, and as pure. 
 
 CHAPTER THIRU. 
 
 WASHINGTON, THE KINO. 
 
 The house of the Lady Marion stood alone 
 on the heights of Wissahikon. 
 
 It was a substantial structure of stone, fac- 
 ing toward the south, its massi%'e front present- 
 ing one imposing surface, while on either side, 
 a semi-circular wing increased its picturesque 
 
 effect. Its steep roof arose in many Gothic 
 shapes, crowned with fantastic chimneys and 
 bordered by heavy cornices along the eaves. 
 
 Above those roofs a grove of horse chestnut 
 trees extended their grateful shade : their broad 
 green leaves, their substantial trunks were con- 
 trasted with the bright verdure of the sward, 
 the rich brown of the gravelled walks, the 
 dark gray of the stone. 
 
 On the right of the mansion, from among a 
 copse of hazel, the roof of a small summer 
 house, or pavilion, burst into light. This 
 elegant structure contained but a single room, 
 furnished in a strange, antique style. 
 
 Two winding carriage roads led from the 
 front of the mansion, under the grove of horse 
 chestnut trees, alonsa wide lawn that extended 
 for some three hundred yards, until it was 
 terminated by the green hedge-row of a 
 shadowy lane. 
 
 Behind the mansion sank the wild declivity 
 of Wissahikon, trees and rocks, sweeps of 
 sward, growths of under-wood, gentle elevations 
 and green hollows, all mingled together. 
 
 The mansion contained many chambers, all 
 furnished in contrasted style ; many passages, 
 some hollowed from the thick wall, some wind 
 ing like a serpent's track, some extending broad 
 and deep along the entire extent of the edifice 
 
 It is with three apartments in this mansion 
 that our history on the night of July the third, 
 between the hours of ten and twelve, is con- 
 nected. The pavdion among the hazel trees 
 has also a deep interest for us. Almost at the 
 same time, in the east and in the west wing, 
 in the pavilion and in the banquetting room 
 of Lady Marion's house, scenes of vital inter 
 est are in progress. 
 
 Time had been, when gay equipages, bear 
 ing the forms of gallant men and beautiful wo 
 men, had rolled along the lawn, when noble 
 steeds stood champing the bit before the door, 
 when every window and crevice of the man- 
 sion poured out its separate stream of light, 
 and the entire grove blazed in every leaf, with 
 a radiance like day. 
 
 Then the sound of vi^oman's laughter, the 
 tread of woman's foot bounding in the dance, 
 mingled with the clatter of goblets and the 
 music of a full band. Until the morning 
 dawned, the Wissahikon rung with the sounds 
 of revelry and the old forest thrilled with the 
 
106 
 
 THE FOURTH OF JULY, 1776, 
 
 clamor of a mad festival. The pavilion, too, 
 shrouded in its copse of hazel, witnessed many 
 a coy meeting, many a scene in which the 
 young maiden, fluttering in satin and brilliant 
 with diamonds, her blood thrilling with the 
 dance and wine, heard with crimsoned cheek 
 and panting bosom the tremulous story, warm 
 from the lips of passion. 
 
 But now all was dark. Dark the mansion 
 in its many chambers ; dark the pavilion m 
 its solitary room ; dark the woods in its tan- 
 gled mazes and winding paths. Not a gleam 
 of light, from pavilion or mansion, illumined 
 the midnight shadows of the grove. 
 
 And yet, had you taken your position by the 
 large tree, that towers before the door, and 
 watched from dark until midnight, you might 
 have seen many strange guests enter the room. 
 Let us, within the shadows of the grove, wait 
 patiently and behold them as they come. 
 
 The Lady Marion, with old Michael by 
 her side ! It is but dusk ; thej' come from the 
 woods of Wissahikon, and silently enter the 
 hall door. 
 
 An hour passes — what have we here? A 
 multitude of forms, shrouded, although it is 
 summer time, in cloaks, with scabbards rat- 
 tling underneath. They have left their horses 
 in yonder grove, hidden by the leaves. One 
 by one they enter the mansion; twenty forms 
 1 all, treading with the step of young manhood 
 over the gravelled walks. 
 
 Another hour! A solitary figure, dressed 
 in a dark habit, appears, glances cautiously 
 around and is gone into the mansion. As he 
 turns his face, we may almost recognize the 
 features of Arthur, Walter or Reginald, as you 
 may please to call him. 
 
 Silence again ; an half hour passes, and an 
 old man, whose dark attire flashes with lace 
 of gold, steps from the shadows and enters the 
 house of Lady Marion. 
 
 Then the form of a young hunter came hur- 
 riedly from the wood in the rear of the house, 
 and, without turning to right or left, glided 
 within the hazel copse which overshadowed 
 the pavilion. 
 
 Poor Rose of Wissahikon ! 
 You will confess that these movements, this 
 strangely contrasted crowd of guests, all, save 
 one, entering the house of Lady Marion, the 
 
 mystery which envelopes their actions, the se- 
 crecy with which they move — fills us with 
 surprise, with awe. 
 
 Between the hours of ten and twelve we 
 will enter the mansion and behold, in three 
 separate chambers, scenes pf absorbing inter- 
 est. Then our steps will wander to yonder 
 pavilion, and, with hushed breath and earnest 
 gaze, we will witness a scene that exceeds 
 them all, not only in its deep interest, but in 
 its strange disclosures. 
 
 First, let the curtain roll back from the Ban- 
 quetting Chamber — 
 
 What do we see ? No goblets of wine ? 
 No wreaths of flowers? The light of six wax 
 candles, placed in candlesticks of silver, reveals 
 the wainscotted walls of that wide chamber, 
 which traverses the mansion from north to 
 south. At the southern end a black curtain, 
 drooping from the ceiling to the floor, iloses 
 the view. 
 
 Around a long table, covered with a dark 
 cloth, the strange guests are assembled. No 
 service of silver, nor goblets or plates of gold, 
 nor anything that betokens a festival, do we 
 behold. 
 
 A sword gleams from the dark cloth of that 
 table ; beside it, letters, papers, parchments, 
 bearing the signatures of such men as Thomas 
 Jefl'erson and John Adams, George Washing- 
 ton and John Hancock, are placed. 
 
 Do you behold the scene ? Those twenty 
 men, all young, with athletic forms and earnest 
 brows, seated around the table — their forms 
 brilliant with warrior costume, every man with 
 his sword unsheathed upon his knee, while 
 his eye is centered upon that erect figure at the 
 head of the board ! 
 
 These are the chivalry of the state and con- 
 tinent ; young men with wealth at their beck, 
 true hearts, who never yet having shared in 
 council or battle, beat with fiery impatience to 
 do some service to their native land. 
 
 And at the head of the table, in a uniform of 
 dark green, faced with gold, stood Walter, the 
 hunter, his-pale, olive cheek, now glowing with 
 strong emotion ; his dark eye, flashing a fire 
 that sent its rays to every heart. 
 
 He stood erect, glancing with conscious 
 pride upon these brave men, who hare hailed 
 him Leader. 
 
OR THE DECLARATION AND THE SIGNERS. 
 
 107 
 
 His eye glances along the board ; he search- 
 ingly surveys those faces. Not a brow but 
 wears its faith, like a signet upon its surface ; 
 not an eye but flashed with answering fire to 
 his own. 
 
 In that clear deep voice which warms the 
 blood to hear, he condenses the deliberations of 
 hours in a few bold words. 
 
 " The time has come for action. The 
 country — the land which bore us, and which 
 God has given to the free — calls to us for de- 
 liverance ! Not merely from the sceptre ot 
 George III., but from the wiles of faction — 
 the tricks of anarchists ! For days the Con- 
 gress, sitting in the old Statehouse, has held its 
 secret session ! For days with closed doors, 
 and all the indications of mystery, it has pur- 
 sued its deliberations ! To what purpose do 
 these mysterious councils tend ? Witness the 
 intercepted letters of its leaders, now spread 
 before you on the table — witness the signa- 
 tures of Hancock, and Jefferson, and Adams ! 
 They would flood the land with blood, not to 
 accomplish its freedom, but to establish on the 
 ruins of the British power the miserable anar- 
 chy of a Venitian Senate. They would pour 
 armies forth on the battle field, not so much to 
 crush King George, as to crash George Wash- 
 ington!" 
 
 He paused, while his flashing eye ran round 
 the throng, as if eager to gather the purpose of 
 men's hearts from their faces. 
 
 No shout, but a deep murmur pervaded that 
 banquet chamber. From their muttered whis- 
 pers, we may gain some knowledge of the ob- 
 ject of this council. 
 
 " Jefl'erson plans the overthrow of Wash- 
 ington !" 
 
 " Hancock would restore us to the sway oi 
 the British King !" 
 
 "The proofs are there — letters signed by 
 them, and plotting treason !" 
 
 " Even Washington writes to this patriotic 
 ^dy — the brave woman wlio has so mysteri- 
 ously summoned us together — writes from his 
 camp, and reveals the treachery of Congress !" 
 
 "We must surround their doors, and scatter 
 their deliberations to the winds !" 
 
 " Ay, sword in hand, my friends ! For the 
 sword is your only cure for the tricks of trai- 
 tors !" 
 
 And twenty extended hands held their good 
 swords in the light. 
 
 At the same moment, from opposite sides of 
 the dark curtain, a face was thrust into view, 
 and as suddenly withdrawn again. This, the 
 scarred visage of Michael the Hunter ; that, 
 the beautiful face of Lady Marion. 
 
 It must be confessed that as Walter stood 
 erect in the presence of his comrades, his 
 marked countenance glaring with the fire of 
 his sworn resolve, he looked, in every inch of 
 his form,, the soldier and the hero. 
 
 " For the assassin there is a gibbet ; for the 
 traitor, the sword ! To-night, brothers in the 
 good cause — to-night, a committee, appointed 
 by Congress to put their mysterious delibera- 
 tions into shape, held their council in the city. 
 Jefferson, Adams, Sherman, and Livingston, 
 are that committee, selected to fulfil the dark 
 work of Congress. 
 
 " Lured, either by the hope of titles from the 
 King, in case they betray the country into his 
 hands; or ambitious of positions of power and 
 trust in case they establish an aristocratic an- 
 archy, like the Republic of Venice — these 
 men have determined the overthrow of Wash- 
 ington. We must trample their schemes into 
 dust! Desperate crimes require desperate 
 remedies ! We must surround the house in 
 which these traitors hold their councils — en- 
 compass every avenue — encircle the room in 
 which they plan their treachery — and, at the 
 points of our swords force from their grasp 
 the proofs of their treachery ! Ay, we must 
 do it ! and before the clock strikes twelve I 
 Then, with the traitors in our power, we will 
 unfurl our flag to the morning light, call the 
 generous spirits of the camp and council to our 
 aid, and from the Statehouse hall, proclaim the 
 name under which we rally — the name under 
 which we will fight — the name under which 
 we will conquer, with us — Washington, the 
 King !" 
 
 He paused, and a silence like the grave per- 
 vaded that hall. From side to side, the com- 
 rades turned, seeking from each other's faces 
 some explanation of this bold movement. The 
 light of the wax candles flashed along the 
 wainscotted walls, and over the dark curtain. 
 Still, that singular silence prevailed. His brow 
 flushed with emotion, Walter sank in his chair, 
 
103 
 
 THE FOURTH OF JULY, 1776. 
 
 while only the sound of deep-drawn breath 
 disturbed the stillness of the scene. 
 
 Slowly — slowly the curtain rolled aside. 
 From its folds, in all her beauty, her voluptu- 
 ous form attired in a dark habit, stepped forth 
 the Lady Marion, with the form of rough 
 Michael, armed with his rifle, by her side. 
 
 " Behold !" and she pointed to an object, 
 disclosed by the parting of the curtain. 
 
 " For that I will fight !" cried old Michael, 
 •waving his rifle toward the object. 
 
 At once a shout, like thunder, echoed along 
 that banquet chamber ; at once twenty forms 
 •started to their feet, and twenty swords des- 
 cribed their circles in the air. 
 
 You see their faces, glowing with enthu- 
 siasm ; you behold Walter turn and echo their 
 ■.shout ; while the Lady Marion glides to his 
 ■side, presses his hands within her own, pours 
 the passion of her heaving breast into her dark 
 ■eyes, and whispers — " Reginald, you have 
 ■done well !" 
 
 And there, disclosed by the curtains, stood 
 the portrait of a warrior, whose tall form and 
 majestic face seemed about to start from the 
 canvass, and glide among the guests, and speak 
 to them. A form, such as kings never owned 
 — an eye, that gleamed its soul from a chival- 
 ric face ; a hand, that grasped its own true 
 sword. 
 
 There was a crown upon that noble brow. 
 And louder through the banquet chamber — 
 "vvhile the Lady Marion, her olive cheek bloom- 
 ong with passion and triumph, glided closer to 
 Walter's side — louder swelled the shout 
 " Washington, the king !" 
 
 CHAPTER FOURTH. 
 
 LADY MARION S KISS. 
 
 In the crescent-shaped room of the east 
 win^ sat an aged man, bending over a table 
 overspread with manuscripts, the light of a 
 solitary candle upon his withered brow. 
 
 He sat in a capacious arm-chair, his slender 
 form attired in a dark coat, adorned by lace 
 and buttons of gold ; while his cambric ruffles 
 were relieved by a long waistcoat of black 
 velvet. 
 
 His hair, white with age, was plainly ga- 
 thered back from his face His entire ap- 
 pearance denoted wealth and station ; his high 
 
 and somewhat narrow forehead, deep gray 
 ej'es, and mouth relaxing in a, calm smile, be- 
 trayed the indications of an enthusiastic nature, 
 whose fire neither the touch of sorrow nor the 
 frosts of age could chill. 
 
 The semi-circular room was elegantly hung 
 with tapestry of dark purple ; the carpet dis- 
 played a soft and rich combination of colors • 
 the ceiling rising in a dome, blushed with the 
 delicate tints of the dawn. Altogether, it was 
 a perfect gem of a chamber, worthy of the 
 luxurious taste of Lady Marion. 
 
 The old man was bent over the table, quietly 
 reading by the light of the lamp, while — as* 
 he passed from paper to paper, from letter to 
 letter — his withered face gradually lighted up, 
 and his eye began, by slow degrees, to burn 
 with the fire of youth. 
 
 For the letters that he read, were the letters 
 of love — the first warm breathings of a heart, 
 now cold forever ; written by a hand that long 
 ago was dust ! 
 
 The tears fell from the old man's eyes. He 
 placed the letters in his bosom. Then, he un- 
 rolled a huge manuscript, bearing on its cover 
 the words — " Journal of John Landsdowne," 
 Here, written in a fair, clear hand, there, 
 blotted by tears, again, stained with blood, the 
 journal covered a space of twenty years. 
 
 But what love and adventures, heroism and 
 murder, were comprised in that history of 
 twenty years ! 
 
 The old man read with a flushed cheek, an 
 eye all fire, a heart that writhed within him. 
 
 At last as he came to the history of that aw- 
 ful NIGHT, written by the hand of the mur- 
 derer himself, the bloody record dropped from 
 his hand, and he buried his face in his hands. 
 " And yet he was a brother!" he gasped. 
 " Two weeks ago, standing within the shadow 
 of the ruins of the blasted house, I discovered 
 the fearful history In her grave ! 
 
 " It was the hand of God that guided me 
 there ; the same hand leads me to the valley of 
 the Wissahikon !" 
 
 A shadow fell along the floor, by his side. 
 Do you see that proud form, standing upon the 
 threshold — that countenance stamped with an 
 expression that contracts the brows, while it 
 parts the red lips in a smile ? 
 
 It is the Lady Marion ; she advances and 
 lays her hand upon the old man's shoulder 
 
OK THE DECLARATION AND THE SIGNERS. 
 
 10!) 
 
 " Ah, is it you, Lady Marion ?" he said, rais- 
 ing his eyes. " Little did I think a year ago, 
 ■when 1 encountered you, the brightest among 
 th(J beauties — nay, do not smile, 'tis but an 
 old man's compliment ! — the brightest among 
 the beauties who surround the throne of King 
 George, that I should ever find you here, liv- 
 ing in retirement, among the woods of Wissa- 
 hikon ! You was then known as the ' Araei-i- 
 can beauty,' who had given her hand to Sir 
 George Ferrers. Pardon ! if my words raise 
 an unpleasant feeling. Sir George died shortly 
 after I saw you at Court. And then, with a 
 heroism worthy of a Spartan woman, you re- 
 solved to return to your native land, eager to 
 share the perils of freedom rather than bask in 
 the sunshine of a royal court. Much less did 
 I then imagine that through your agency, I 
 should one day recover my lost daughter — " 
 "Yesterday, in the city, you placed those 
 papers in my hands ; and I told you where 
 your child was hidden. You were also in 
 search of your nephew, Reginald Landsdowne, 
 
 of St. Leonard " 
 
 " I bear in my hand his credentials as Dele- 
 gate from his State, to the Continental Con- 
 gress. He has-been strange — mysterious in 
 his movements for the past year. Heir to an 
 immense estate. — in fact, the actual possessor 
 — with talents and geniusthatfit him to shine, 
 even in the Congress, where so many great 
 men are gathered, he has buried himself from 
 society for nearly a year. Eh ! eccentric 1 
 your looks seems to say." 
 
 " To-morrow you shall clasp your daughter 
 to your arms ; to-morrow you shall present 
 these credentials to Reginald Landsdowne, of 
 
 St. Leonard's " 
 
 "Why not to-night?" and the old man'p 
 countenance.betrayed an overwhelming anxiety. 
 "Do not ask my reasons !" Her smile was 
 accompanied with one of those glances of her 
 full dark eyes, that flashed but to conquer, 
 "To-morrow, all will be right ! To-morrow, 
 all my little plans — ha, ha ! you see I have a 
 true woman's taste for mystery — will be ful- 
 filled !" 
 
 Thus speaking, she left the room, while the 
 old man bent down to his papers again. 
 
 "AH would be well," he muttered, " if I 
 could only find my lost son ! But it is asking 
 too much of Heaven. And yet my researches 
 
 into his history, from the rtioment when, but a 
 child, he was torn from his dead mother's side 
 Well, well ! to-morrow will decide all !" 
 
 " To-morrow !" triumphantly echoed Lady 
 Marion, as she hurried along the corridor and 
 down the stairs. "Ha, ha! to-morrow 1" 
 
 She stood in front of the old mansion, on 
 the stone steps leading to the hall door. In 
 silence, twenty horsemen awaited there — 
 their steeds grouped round the walk — their 
 scabbards seen from beneath the folds of their 
 cloaks. 
 
 A single horse wheeled from the throng, and 
 his rider, bending over the neck of the impa- 
 tiant steed, removed his chapeau from his pale 
 brow. 
 
 " Lady Marion, I go to serve my country !" 
 he whispered. 
 
 She advanced, and standing on the steps of 
 stone, extended her hands ! Ah ! how that 
 pressure fired the leader's blood ! Bending 
 down over the neck of his steed, he — imper- 
 ceptibly — wound his arms about her neck, 
 and felt her cheek against his own, her heart 
 throbbing through her voluptuous bosom. 
 
 " If I am successful " he whispered. 
 
 " Return successful," — a soft voice breathed 
 the words upon his lips, and sealed them with 
 a kiss — "and Reginald Landsdowne, I am 
 yours !" 
 
 The sounds rose in the light, and twenty 
 horses darted away, bearing their gallant and 
 chivalrous riders toward the city. Away, 
 through the trees, and along the lawn, faint 
 and fainter, the sound of the hoofs, the clatter- 
 ing of scabbards, died on the ear. 
 
 The figure of a man advanced from the 
 grove, and stood beside Lady Marion. So ut- 
 terly absorbed was this woman in the emotion 
 resulting from her dark schemes, that she did 
 not notice the presence of the stranger, until 
 after the lapse of a few moments. 
 
 " Ah ! Michael, is it you ?" she said at last. 
 " Take horse, and away ; do not lose a mo- 
 ment. While these gentlemen surround the 
 Committee, you must secure the person of 
 President Hancock ! Do not return to your 
 home ; I will take care that your daughter shall 
 not wonder at your absence ! Away !" 
 
 "For Washington!" the bluff old hunter 
 muttered, as he hurried from the hall. 
 
 The Lady Marion stood wrapt in thought. 
 
no 
 
 THE FOURTH OF JULY, 1776, 
 
 " He loves her, with a pure passion, and 
 would dishonor her ! Me, he loves, vi'ith a 
 passion born of madness ; — 1 can sway him 
 as I will. For me, he will dishonor his name 
 and betray his country ! Ha, ha !" 
 
 Bewitching Lady Marion ! 
 
 CHAPTER FIFTH. 
 
 LADY MARION S TEAR. 
 
 It was the bower of a beautiful woman. 
 
 Three windows, curtained with folds of pale 
 crimson silii, mirrors between each window, 
 reaching from the ceiling to the floor, so that 
 the lovely woman who occupies it, might see a 
 lovely lady like herself whichever way she 
 turned ; a luxurious sofa, cushioned with vel- 
 vet, and an arm-chair whose capacious back 
 her head might rest upon as a pillow — it was 
 the very Temple in which a proud and haughty 
 woman might retire and worship her own 
 beauty. 
 
 And yet strange to say, the small lamp 
 which hung from the dome-like ceiling, did not 
 reveal the form of a lovely woman. 
 
 No ! Beside a small writing-desk, scattered 
 all over with papers, stood an uncouth figure, 
 broad in the shoulders, attired in a rugged 
 dress, with heavy boots, and a mask of faJed 
 crape over his face. 
 
 It was the Outcast who had attacked Lady 
 Marion in the woods ; the robber who had de- 
 spoiled her bosom of its chain and jewel ; the 
 assassin who had prepared for his work of 
 force by tampering with the hunter's rifle. 
 
 Wo ! to the proud woman, if in her most se- 
 cret retreat she encounters this outcast, with 
 crape upon his face and pistols in his belt ! 
 
 He bent over the table, reading with a low 
 chuckle of delight a letter which the hand of 
 Lady Marion had traced. Looking over his 
 shoulder, we may discover words like these : 
 To the General commanding his Majesty' s forces in 
 America — 
 
 Ere you receive this, you will have learned that the 
 prominent members of the Rebel Congress have been 
 seized and made prisoners, by certain gentlemen who 
 have proclaimed George Washington, the Rebel Gene- 
 ral, Kiwn. At this hour, Hancock, Jefferson, J\.dams, 
 with other Delegates, are prisoners at my house, near 
 Philadelphia. Thus have we introduced dissension 
 among the ranks of the rebels; while one party prate 
 about a republic, another talk of returning to their al- 
 
 legiance, and a third — I know your excellency will 
 smile- — prate of King Washington. How this has 
 been accomplished will be made known at the proper 
 time. Enough to say, that this Declaration, about 
 which they whispered so deeply, for a month back, this 
 Proclamation of Independence, is now crushed^ — quite 
 forgotten in the public clamor. Permit me to hope, 
 that in announcing these facts to his Majesty, you will 
 neither forget the services, nor promised reward ot 
 
 Makiok. 
 Thk Fourth of July, 1776. 
 
 " Ha, ha ! draft of a letter to be sent in cy- 
 pher — " muttered the Outcast — "The good 
 lady anticipates — she may fail — " 
 
 " She cannot fail," said a deep voice, and 
 Lady Marion stood beside him. 
 
 Does the Outcast dart upon her, with the 
 upraised knife, and menace her beauty with the 
 violence, the outrage of a bravo and ruflian ? 
 
 No ! He stands for a moment, as if contem- 
 plating the singular beauty of her face, the elo- 
 quence of her eye, the passion of her swelling 
 bust, her majestic form. Then tearing the cap 
 from his brow, the crape from his face, the 
 rough costume from his form, he stands before 
 us, a young gentleman, slender in figure, clad 
 in a gay British uniform, with light curls of 
 golden hair waving about his florid face. 
 
 " Tolerably well done : that robber scene ! 
 Eh — sis?" he exclaimed, with that air of 
 quiet composure — some call it impudence — 
 which alike distinguishes the fcne city gentle- 
 man and the supremely fine city blackguard — 
 " The poor devil did not imagine that we got 
 up that little piece of tragedy for his benefit ! 
 I've quite a good opinion of myself in private 
 theatricals !" 
 
 He flung his delicate form upon the sofa, 
 and turned towards the light a face marked by 
 the cold, dead eyes of satiety, the unmeaning 
 lip and vacant stare of dissolute indulgence. 
 
 " All is safe," his sister exclaimed, pacing 
 the room — " Confusion in the camp of the 
 Rebels — Reginald Landsdowne in ray pow- 
 er—" 
 
 " Sis, do you really love that man ?" — you 
 can see the sneer upon the face of that finished 
 man of the world — " Beyond your ambitious 
 schemes — your title and your promised 
 power, do you care for him ? pale-faced, 
 melancholy Don Quixotte that he is ?" 
 
 The brother was frightened by his sister's 
 look. 
 
OR THE DECLARATION AND THE EI0NER8 
 
 " Po I care for him ? Why have I deserted 
 t*ie glare and splendor of the British Court, for 
 this dark path of treachery and intrigue ? "Why 
 coined my soul into desperate deeds, in order 
 to combine men of various interests into one 
 great enterprise ? Why all this mystery, this 
 craft, yes, I will say it, this crime ? Do I 
 love him ? One year ago, I beheld that pale, 
 melancholy face, standing out from among the 
 shallow-visaged courtiers ; I felt the light of 
 those deep, earnest eyes, and from that hour 
 loved Reginald Landsdovrne ! Yes, all my 
 schemes shall — must end, in placing a coro- 
 net upon his brow, the title of Earl before his 
 name ! Love him ? ' Tis of such men, kings 
 are made !" 
 
 Pacing over the carpet, she clenched her 
 hands upon her bosom, while her eyes flashed 
 that singular and peculiar light, which made 
 her look like a beautiful Demon. 
 
 " But you forget my part of the bargain, 
 Mis — " cried the brother, assuming an easier 
 position on the sofa — "I forged those papers, 
 bearing the signatures of Jefferson and the 
 other rebels. I aided your schemes. I have 
 made myself shockingly disgusting to look 
 upon, for your sake. Now comes my reward. 
 The Rose of Wissahikon yesterday was but a 
 poor peasant maid. Now, she is the heiress 
 of some sweet lands, and delicious stores of 
 gold. Your dear brother is in want of lands 
 and gold, and is willing to take a wife into the 
 bargain. What need of a long courtship, 
 when — " 
 
 " Pshaw ! Need you make me the partner 
 of your schem'es?" — she paused before him, 
 her eyes flashing scorn — "go! if you have 
 your plan arranged, go and execute it ! Tell 
 not to me your schemes — for with all my am- 
 bition, Gerald — with all the feverish thirst of 
 power — I am a woman !" 
 
 For once she blushed. Yes, blushed, over 
 the neck and cheeks and brow, while her head 
 fell slowly on her bosom. The youthful 
 gentleman, whose dead eyes and colorless lips 
 and florid cheeks, betrayed a premature old 
 age, surveyed his magnificent sister with a 
 glance of surprise. All that Heaven had be- 
 stowed of the Man, upon this darling of vice, 
 had long ago dribbled out from his veins, leav- 
 ing his heart as cold as his leaden eye. He 
 
 111 
 
 could not comprehend the remorse of his 
 sister. 
 
 "Go!" she cried, as that pure impulse of 
 her woman's nature again bathed her cheek 
 and brow with crimson. " The anguish of 
 the father, to-morrow, when he learns his 
 daughter's fate — the curse of Reginald when 
 he learns her shame — these will be hard to 
 bear, aye more dangerous than the knife or 
 rifle of old Michael, the hunter." 
 
 " I will arrange this little matter," said Gerald 
 Moynton, as he pushed negligently aside his 
 golden curls — "excuse me, sis, for a young 
 lady IS anxiously waiting to " see her lost 
 brother .'' " 
 
 He lounged languidly from the room, leav- 
 ing Lady Marion alone, her arms clasped 
 across her bosom, her head bowed low. In vain 
 that pressure of the clasped hands ; it could 
 not still the volcano of contending passions, 
 raging within the breast. In vain that droop- 
 ing of the head ; it could not hide the shadow 
 of the face, the quivering of the lip, the eye 
 gleaming with one, only one drop of pity. 
 
 Blessed be Heaven for that solitary tear. 
 
 CHAPTER SIXTH. 
 
 WAYANIKO. 
 
 In the darkness of the summer house, Rose 
 awaited the coming of the Astrologer, who 
 was to disclose her brother's face. 
 
 The windows of the solitary room were 
 closed, not the ray of a star, or the gleam of 
 a taper, found entrance there. From the mo- 
 ment that she passed the threshold, closing the 
 only door as' she entered, the darkness of the 
 place had not been broken by a ray, nor its 
 death-like silence disturbed by a sound. 
 
 Yet the carpet which her footstep pressed 
 was soft and luxurious ; the wall which her 
 fingers touched, was shrouded in hangings of 
 satin ; the chair in which she sank was 
 cushioned in softest velvet, that yielded like a 
 pillow to her form. 
 
 Attired in that hunter's garb, she laid her 
 head on one shoulder, and resigned herself to 
 her thoughts. 
 
 The strange story of Lady Marion — how in 
 all its hues of sunshine and cloud, in all its 
 thrilling words of blood and tears, it rose once 
 more upon her soul ! 
 
THE FOTJRTH OF JULY, 1776, 
 
 " Within these wild solitudes, dwells an old 
 man, who has made the future his study for 
 seventy years, and wrung supernatural truth, 
 even from the grasp of death. Go to the 
 pavilion, he will meet you there ! Your lost 
 brother shall be revealed to you : you shall be- 
 hold him, even as he is, whether in health or 
 sickness, poverty or wealth !" 
 
 How could she doubt words so kind, spoken 
 with beaming eyes and soft hands gently pres- 
 sed within her own? Perchance, in that mo- 
 ment, Lady Marion spoke hut the sincere feel- 
 ing of her heart ; perchance it was but a dear 
 surprise that she intended ; perchance from 
 the very shadow of that pavilion the brother 
 would start, and gather the sister to his breast, 
 perchance — 
 
 But those words spoken to Gerald Moynton 
 in her bower ? 
 
 Rose was thinking of her lost brother, when 
 she fell asleep. Such a beautiful dream ! A 
 winding path, leading from a summer valley, 
 green with trees and beautiful with flowers 
 along the ascent of a hill among the trunks of 
 centuried oaks. A garden so wild and deserted, 
 its scanty flowers choked by weeds. Then, 
 through the tangled paths, she beheld a black- 
 ened wall, with the blue sky gleaming through 
 its desolate windows. Fearfully across that 
 threshold she passed — O, what sigh of horror 
 was here ! The half bared form of a beautiful 
 woman lay extended on the hearth, her bosom 
 rent by a hideous gash, and a little babe 
 stretched out its liny hands, and plaj'ed with 
 the long dark hair, dabbled in its mother's 
 blood. 
 
 As though a hand was at her throat, pressing 
 the breath from her bosom with its iron clutch. 
 Rose struggled, and after a moment like the 
 agony of death, awoke. As she glanced 
 around the park pavilion, a voice unnaturally 
 deep and hollow thrilled on her soul. 
 
 " Maiden ! would'st thou behold thy 
 brother's form." 
 
 Was it but a continuation of her dream ? 
 Scarce knowing what she said. Rose gasped, 
 'I would I" 
 
 From the darkness of that chamber, as from 
 the vault of a midnight sky, a faint light strug- 
 gled into birth, and played upon the maiden's 
 face. Her form is dark, but do you see tha^ 
 face bathed in a pale crimson glow, the eyes 
 
 dilating, the lips slowly parting, the bair rrar- 
 ing back from the white brow ! It stands out 
 from the gloom, like a cherub face, painted 
 among misty clouds. 
 
 " Thy brother comes ! " said that voice, 
 whose source was iirvisihle. 
 
 Rose bent forward with hushed breath, and 
 beheld a mirror, glimmering in that pale crim- 
 son light. A mirror that now was lost in 
 clouds of light golden mist, and now seemed 
 like a midnight sky, gleaming with a single 
 star. From its centre shone that light, the sol- 
 itary star ! 
 
 "Ah! I hear his step — he comes through 
 the wood — his foot is on the threshold — he 
 is here !" 
 
 As Rose gasped these words, her whole 
 frame quivering with an emotion almost super- 
 natural, a sudden light flashed from the dark- 
 ness, bathed her face in darkness, and revealed 
 the form of a young man, who, with his arms 
 folded, stood gazing upon her with a sneering 
 lip, and dull, leaden eyes. 
 
 Gerald Moynton and his victim ! 
 
 " Sister, I have come !" he said, and ex- 
 tended his arms. At the same moment a 
 mass of perfumed vapor, rolling in soft clouds, 
 fills the pavilion, and penetrates the veins of 
 the unprotected girl. She felt all power over 
 her limbs or motions gliding from her, while 
 her mind shone out in renewed vigor. A lul- 
 ling sensation pervaded every nerve, a dreamy 
 languor, the result of the pungent vapor, which 
 filled the place, possessed her form ; she had 
 not power to move a hand or foot, while her 
 very soul shrank within her at the sight of this 
 man, with the pale face and leaden eyes. 
 
 " You ! my brother ! N-o-o-o !" she faintly 
 gasped. 
 
 Her form, thrown helplessly on the chair, 
 one limb crossed over the other, her arms rest- 
 ing by her side, as though deprived of all the 
 power of motion ; her head laid on the right 
 shoulder ; the features perfectly calm and 
 statue-like, while the cheek glows with a faint 
 flush, and her eyes emit a soft fire, diffused 
 like luminous moisture over their surface, be- 
 tween the half closed lids. 
 
 She was very beautiful, the helpless Rose, 
 of Wissahikon ! 
 
 But Gerald Moynton had no pity. 
 
 His jaded countenance faintly glowed, his 
 
OR THE DECLARATION AND THE SIGNERS, 
 
 113 
 
 lip was compressed, but his cold, stony eyes 
 — from which the lowest vice had stolen for- 
 ever the fire of youth — emitted no flashing 
 light. 
 
 "I am your brother!" he said, and took 
 her hand. She quivered faintly, made a mo- 
 tion like one oppressed by a nightmare, and 
 moved her lips, but could not utter a sound. 
 0, she shrank from his polluted touch with ail 
 her soul, but the misty vapor which filled the 
 room, rendered her helpless as though she had 
 been chained with cords of iron. 
 
 " You see my pretty one, and I am your 
 brother, and I love you !" 
 
 Bending languidly forward, he kissed her 
 with his colorless lips — yes, pressed those 
 lips which resembled a rose-bud torn in twain 
 — and at the same moment fell like a weight 
 to the floor. Fell, stunned by a sudden blow ; 
 fell, trampled by a firm foot ! 
 
 There, before the motionless maiden, tow- 
 ered a tall form, clad in a many colored blanket 
 whose rich dyes swept from his broad shoul- 
 ders to the ground, while his bronzed forehead 
 was surmounted by a solitary plume. He 
 stood there, like a king upon his throne ; the 
 tiger's skin, which enveloped his form beneath 
 the blanket, relieved by the gleam of a hunting 
 knife. In one arm a rifle ; his limbs cased in 
 leggings of. buckskin ; moccasins upon his 
 feet, he stood before her, his neck rising 
 proudly from his broad shoulders, while his 
 dark red face, with its aquiline nose, firm 
 mouth and prominent chin, was strangely re- 
 lieved by clear blue eyes. 
 
 An Indian of the forest, with clear blue eyes ! 
 
 " Sister, I have come at last !" he said, that 
 stern red man, and stretched forth his arms. 
 
 " Brother !" she cried, and felt herself drawn 
 toward his breast. 
 
 " We parted many years ago" — said that 
 voice, speaking clearly with a strong Indian 
 accent —" Beside the body of the dead woman 
 our mother. Many suns, many moons, have 
 gone since then. Sixteen times since that 
 hour, there have been flowers and snows. We 
 meet again ! You the Rose of the Valley, the 
 flower of Wissahikon ! I, the White Indian, 
 Wayaniko ! 
 
 Rose heard the voice, and felt her senses 
 glide from her like the dew from the flower 
 before the morning sun. 
 
 When she again unclosed her eyes, an old 
 man bent over her — she felt his tears upon 
 her face, his grey hairs touch her cheek; she 
 heard him whisper " Daughter !" 
 
 By her side, that tall Indian form gazing 
 upon her, with those clear blue eyes, shining 
 from his. dark red face. 
 
 Rose, still wrapt in a kind of half conscious- 
 ness, hears them converse together ; hears with 
 blood now burning like lava, now freezing 
 like death, the dark story, in which the names 
 of Walter, Arthur, Reginald are mingled with 
 the name of Lady Marion. She beholds the 
 credentials in her father's hand , even now her 
 lover goes to do a work of treason, perchance 
 murder. 
 
 It is a strange, a stormy history ! 
 
 All she knows, all she feels, is that her 
 lover is in danger. 
 
 Darting from the chair, she seizes those cre- 
 dentials, dashes through the door, and clad as 
 she is, in her hunter's garb hurries toward the 
 lane where the carriage waits for her. 
 
 The father, the son, stand gazing in each 
 other's face, .as though stricken dnmb, by this 
 sudden energy of the brave girl. 
 
 On, brave Rose on ! The glen is past, then 
 the cliff" is. won, and last of all, the wood of 
 pines is threaded by your frenzied steps. 
 
 In the shadiest nook of the sequestered lane, 
 the faithful negro in his gay livery, sitting on 
 the box of the carriage, beholds a slender form 
 dart from the bushes, and in a moment glide 
 within the carriage door. 
 
 Away, mettled steeds, away ! Through the 
 shadows of the night, you see the carriage 
 ascend the steep of yonder distant hill. 
 
 " Ask me not now, father, the cause of my 
 sudden appearance ! — the explanation of these 
 mysteries. Be it enough to say, I know all ! 
 I must away to the city to save my sister — 
 save your brother, who now goes to do 
 violence to the chief of your nation's council 
 — and save this Reginald, who wears my 
 sister's peace within his breast !" 
 
 And as the nobie Indian form left the 
 pavilion, Martin Landsdowne sank on his 
 knees, and thanked God for the recovery of 
 these children, whom he had never seen, since 
 that moment when they were torn by rude 
 hands from the bosom of the dead mother. 
 
114 
 
 THB FOURTH (W JULY, 1776, 
 
 Tossed by contending passions, her brow 
 jisfigured by a frown, her eyes glaring in her 
 livid face, Lady Marion gazed on her discom- 
 iitted brother, paced hurriedly along her 
 chamber, and with that muttering of low-toned 
 words, scattered her dark hair by the roots. 
 
 "Foiled, and now! Now, when the 
 triumph was ours ! Ah, it is too much! Rise, 
 Sir — do not crouch pale and thunderstrickcn 
 there, but saddle my horse, and get me some 
 arms. The night is but half spent !" 
 
 CHAPTER SEVENTH. 
 
 THE COIINCII, IN THE OLD STATEHOUSE. 
 
 Through old Philadelphia at dead of night, 
 we will hasten, w'th hushed breath and stealthy 
 tread. 
 
 Not cnroiigh the Philadelphia of our day, 
 which extends for miles on miles, a wilderness 
 of red brick, a gorgeous panorama of wealth 
 and misery — reaching from the marble temple 
 consecrated with the name of Girard, to the 
 ark-like structure of the Navy-yard — from the 
 Elm of Shakamaxon to that palace which rises 
 on the Schuylkill, a mansion for the poor — 
 from river to river — from green hills on the 
 north, to the sloping meadows of the Neck on 
 the south — a beautiful city, with such elegant 
 streets — such dark alleys — such white banks, 
 and such picturesque jails ; — such magnificent 
 churches — some rising in the pride of their 
 varied architecture, and some blackening in the 
 day, rearing the awful witness of their blasted 
 walls to the blue sky of God ! 
 
 No ! almost the only thing of the old Phila- 
 delphia that yet remains is the Hall of the 
 Declaration, and that speculation dare not 
 batter into ruins — the lust of money cannot 
 gnaw into dust ! Even as the Hebrew people 
 of old solemnly cursed the man who removed 
 the sacred landmark, or stoned to atoms the 
 wretch who spat Upon his mother's gray hairs, 
 so let him be treated who removes a brick or 
 pollutes an inch of glorious Independence 
 Hall! 
 
 Old Philadelphia, as it lay beneath ihg mid- 
 night sky, on the 3d of July, 1776, was alto- 
 gether a different thing from the Philadelphia 
 of 1847. 
 
 Along the Delaware, two miles north and 
 south ; from the Delaware to the west, but a 
 
 mile at most ; — such was its extent. From 
 where Broad street now extends — the most 
 beautiful avenue in the world for gay young 
 gentlemen, ambitious of a fast-trotting horse — 
 to the waves of the Schuylkill, all was a ihick 
 wood, as wild as the red men whom it shel- 
 tered, not a hundred years ago. , 
 
 From Bush Hill for a mile or two into the 
 city, were green fields, beautiful hills, and 
 picturesque country-seats. In brief, some 
 four or five cities, like the old Philadelphia, 
 could, with ease, be laid to sleep in the lap of 
 the modern " Brotherly Love.'' 
 
 Through these streets, then let us hurry ; in 
 front of the Slatehouse, which arises from a 
 green lawn, overspread with trees, and 
 encircled by a rude broad fence, let us stay our 
 steps, and survey the scattered crowds who 
 cluster there. 
 
 The clock whose face is seen near the top 
 of the abutment projecting from the rear of the 
 Statehouse, points to the hour of twelve ; the 
 3d of July is near its end, and, flashing on the 
 world, a beautiful thing of godlike hopes, the 
 Fourth of July trembles on the verge of 
 birth. 
 
 What means these crowds ? Those voices, 
 whispering low ? The mingled garb of mer- 
 chant, mechanic, farmer and laborer, scattered 
 over the lawn ? Listen ! For days Congress 
 has been in secret session, and a strange rumor 
 broods upon the air, that they are planning 
 some deed which will starde the world ! 
 
 Only one window of the old Statehcmse 
 emits a ray of light. Light, through carefully 
 closed curtains, comes forth in trembling rays, 
 and dies on the darkness of the lawn. 
 
 While yon immense cloud gathers over the 
 Statehouse — so black, so dense, so like a pall 
 — let us hasten up these wide stairs, along this 
 dark hall, through the darker corridor, into this 
 small room, separated by partitions from the 
 larger chambers of the second-story, and hung 
 with plain tapestry of a rich dark color. 
 
 It is a simply furnished room. A huge ta- 
 ble of solid oak, on which a shaded lamp is 
 placed, 3, few heavy chairs, a curtain, hanging 
 across the ceiling, and marking a dark space of 
 some few feet between its folds and ihe narrow 
 door. You behold this Council Chamber of 
 the old Statehouse 
 
 Around that table are seated five men 
 
OR THE DECLARATION AND THE SIGNERS. 
 
 115 
 
 whose vaTious faces and different attitudes 
 strike you with a deep interest. 
 
 Alone, at the head of the table, bending over 
 an unfolded sheet, traced with the characters of 
 a firm, round hand, you behold a tall, athletic 
 man, clad in a plain costume of iron grey 
 such as a farmer who dwelt in the quiet of his 
 fields might wear. His hair is sandy — al- 
 most red ; his complexion somewhat fair, but 
 marked with freckles ; his features bold and 
 prominent, but his clear gray eyeg light up his 
 face, and warm each feature with the fire of a 
 determined soul. 
 
 As he bends over the paper, you see his long 
 fingers pass from line to line, while his cheek, 
 warming with a crimson flush, betrays the 
 presence of deep emotion. That is Thomas 
 Jefferson, a Delegate from Virginia, who has 
 distinguished himself in Congress, as a " Silent 
 member, but prompt, frank, explicit and deci- 
 sive; not so much renowned for great speeches, 
 as for his literary and scientific attainments." * 
 
 On his right, leaning back in the wide arm- 
 chair, sat a man dressed in a rich suit of 
 brown velvet, his hands folded calmly over his 
 chest. Not so tall, but somewhat larger in 
 bulk than his companion, his face ruddy in the 
 cheeks, intricate with wrinkles where the 
 brows meet, piercing in the eyes, displays at 
 once the fever and irritability of genius. 
 
 That is John Adams, the Delegate from Bos- 
 ton, who thunders, three times a day, in that 
 voice that wakes up men's souls — " Great 
 
 BrITIAN is THE NATURAL ENEMY OF AMER- 
 ICA !" 
 
 Far back, in the shadows, you see a mild 
 face, beaming with a gentle smile about the lips, 
 the eyes full of calm light, the forehead reheved 
 by brown hair, silvered with age, and falling in 
 heavy curls behind the ears, stamped with the 
 outlines of a giant intellect. 
 
 Benjamin Franklin, the printer boy,whoha« 
 lured the lightnings from the sky, and hurled 
 them at thrones of kings. 
 
 On one side of Franklin, a man, whose short 
 stOTit form is clad in a dress of dark green — 
 whose ruddy face, stamped with the traces of 
 an honest heart, is also marked by the lines of 
 thought. Roger Sherman, the shoemaker of 
 Connecticut. 
 
 * Words of John Adams. 
 
 There a gentleman, who is attired in a rich 
 garb of dark velvet, while his face, somewhat 
 jovial in its expression, sparkles with the light 
 of flashing black eyes, that glance to and fro 
 wi.th. a restless expression. 
 
 That is Robert R. Livingston, of New 
 York. 
 
 " I like that paper, Jefferson," said Adams, 
 drawing his chair nearer to the table ; " I am de- 
 lighted with its high tone — its flights of ora- 
 tory ; especially that concerning negro slavery, 
 which, however, I am afraid will touch our 
 Southern brethren who own slaves " 
 
 One of those cold smiles which gave such a 
 cutting sarcasm to the face of Jefferson, now 
 crossed his lips. 
 
 "Or, our Northern brethren, some of whom 
 are carriers of slaves," he quietly said. 
 
 " There is one word, however, which I do 
 not like," exclaimed Adams. " You call 
 King George a ' tyrant.' Now, I regard his 
 crimes as rather of an ofiicial than a private 
 nature " 
 
 " Yes, Claudius Nero was a gentleman of 
 the most amiable qualities, and yet he mur- 
 dered a few thousand Christians every day, 
 and fiddled sometimes over burning Rome." 
 
 Not a smile ruffled the severity of Franklin's 
 face, as he uttered this sentiment. 
 
 " To be sure," said Livingston ; " Lexing- 
 ton and Bunker Hill were fine illustrations of 
 the amiable. Christian characte-r of our good 
 King." 
 
 " It is indeed severe to call him a tyrant, 
 when he values our heads at such a reasonable 
 price," said Sherman, the shoemaker. 
 
 The irritable blood of Adams began to glow. 
 
 " Well, have it as you will — I care not for 
 the weak, misguided man. My love for his 
 government has been recorded in my actions." 
 He grasped Jefferson by the hand — " That is 
 a noble document — such as they never 
 dreamed of in Greece or Rome. It does you 
 eternal honor." 
 
 A glow of pleasure pervaded Jefferson's 
 face. To be praised by stout-hearted John 
 Adams, was worth fine gold. 
 
 Just fifty years and six hours from the mo- 
 ment when Jefferson and Adams joined hands 
 in that council room, they lay on their death- 
 beds, separated by a distance of four hundred 
 miles, yet joined in one glory, their freezing 
 
116 
 
 THE FOURTH OF JULY, 1776. 
 
 ears filled with the c<innon-thunder and earth- 
 quake-shouts of the Fourth of July. 
 
 "Read it again, .Jefferson," said Franklin. 
 
 As Jefferson prepared to read the paper 
 once again, a noise — like a stealthy footstep — 
 was heard, behind yonder curtain. They did 
 not heed that sound of warning. Yet, behind 
 the curtain and in the corridor, without the 
 chamber, twenty swords gleamed through the 
 darkness. 
 
 They did not hear that sound, nor the deep 
 whisper of Reginald Landsdowne of St. 
 Leonard's — "A moment, and the conspirators 
 are ours !" 
 
 Thomas Jefferson read the Declaration once 
 again. 
 
 How his efes flashed — how his deep tones 
 rung through the chamber, as he uttered words 
 like these : — 
 
 " These facts — [the long recital of galling 
 Wrongs] — have given the last stab to agoniz- 
 ing affection^ and manly spirit bids us re- 
 nounce forever these unfeeling brethren. We 
 must endeavor to forget our former love for 
 them, and to hold them as we hold the rest 
 of mankind, enemies in war, in peace friends . 
 TVe might have been a free and a great peo- 
 ble together ; but a communication of gran- 
 deur and of freedom it seems is below their 
 dignity. Be it so, since they will have it. 
 The road to happiness and to glory is open 
 to us too. Wf, will tread it apart from 
 
 THEM." 
 
 There was the strong fever of enthusiasm 
 upon the face of Jefferson, as he uttered the 
 last word of the Declaration. 
 
 " But this is not all!" he said — "When 
 the war is over and our freedom won, the Peo- 
 ple must make a new Declaration — They 
 must declare the rights of man, the individual, 
 sacred above all craft in priesthood or govern- 
 ment.- They must, at one blow, declare the 
 end of all those trickeries of English Law, 
 which garnered up from the charnels of age, 
 bind the heart and will with lies. They must 
 perpetuate republican truth, by declaring the 
 homestead of every American, a holy thing, 
 which no law can touch, no jnggle wrest, from 
 his wife and children. Until this is done, the 
 Revolution will have been fought in vain." 
 
 These words created strong emotions in the 
 breasts of his compatriots. 
 
 " This is true, but we must take care to pre- 
 serve the balance of power in our government," 
 exclaimed Adams ; " with all its Exults, the 
 English system seems the best — " 
 
 " The King pulling one way, the house of 
 lords tugging another, while the commons is 
 hauled about by both together !" exclaimed 
 Franklin, wilh one of his quiet smiles. 
 
 Sherman and Livingston exchanged meaning 
 glances, and joined in his smile. 
 
 Again that sound behind the curtain! 
 
 But Jefferson rose to his feet, his angular 
 form displayed in the shaded light. In a tone 
 of deep conviction, he spoke. Oh, that I 
 could write his words of holy truth in every 
 American heart ! 
 
 " Our People must take care that the labor, 
 the blood of the Revolution, is notspent in vain. 
 There is one evil, above all others, which I 
 fear — the government of this Confederacy 
 centralized at the Capitol, siirronnd''d by in- 
 numerable hordes of office-holders, dependent 
 on its ivill, and backed by a Judiciary inde- 
 pendent of the People. You may talk, gen- 
 demen, of an age not being prepared for their 
 progress into perfect freedom, you may 
 whisper ' It is not yet time !" but the word of 
 God, the history of centuries, attests the fact 
 that for a people determined to be wholly free, 
 it is always Time ; that for an age resolved 
 to work out its own destiny, it is always Day !" 
 
 When the heart of Jefferson was in his 
 words, his freckled cheek glowed with crimson; 
 and his eye flashed the fire of a soul conscious 
 of its powers. So now, rising above his com- 
 patriots, he thrilled in every nerve, while his 
 words shot like electric fire, to every heart. 
 
 " We must make (he Declaration unani- 
 mous," he said, resuming his seat. "For days 
 the debate has been fierce and tumultuous. But 
 nowwe have nerved the timorous, frowned the 
 wavering from our councils, and combined the 
 forces of freedom into one solid front. That 
 was a noble deed, the Declaration made by 
 Pennsylvania, on the 28th of June! — We 
 have tested our men, and know them ! Yet 
 there is one man absent, whose presence I es- 
 pecially desire — the lately elected Delegate 
 
 from the State of whq has not yet taken 
 
 his seat. I mean " 
 
 The State House clock striking the hour ol 
 twelve, interrupted his words. 
 
(117) 
 
on TIIF, DECLARATION AND THE SIGNERS. 
 
 119 
 
 The Fourth of July was born. 
 
 "1 mean Reginald Landsdowne of Lands- 
 do wue " 
 
 " He is here !" said a deep voice. 
 
 At the word, ihe curtain was dashed aside, 
 and the gleam of swords shone through the 
 Council Room. Silently around that council 
 table, circled twenty gallant forms, surrounding 
 Jefferson and his compatriots with a wall of 
 glittering steel. 
 
 Silently a solitary form advanced ; stood be- 
 fore Jefferson ; his tall form heaving with 
 emotion, his pale face traced with the fiery re- 
 solve of that hour. 
 
 " Reginald Landsdowne !" said Jefferson, 
 rising with calm dignity. 
 
 " I am here ! Conspirators, you are our 
 prisoners !" cried Reginald, placing his sword 
 before the heart of Jefferson. 
 
 " Prisoners ?" echoed Adams, starting to 
 his feet. 
 
 " Yes, your plans are known, your schemes 
 are revealed !" spoke Reginald, his bieast heav- 
 ing with deep indignation. " Ah ! shame, 
 eternal shame upon your heads ' You, the 
 Prophets of Freedom, to become the execu- 
 tioners ! You, Jefferson, to plan th*" overthrow 
 of Washington— you, Franklin, to lling the 
 sceptre of the Continent once more at the feet 
 of the English king — you, Sherman, Living- 
 ston, stern republicans as you are, to join in 
 this work — and Adams, first and bravest of 
 the heroes of the council, you who nominated 
 Washington, to plot his downfall !'' 
 
 An indignant murmur pervaded the council 
 thamber, while the band drew cl'oser round 
 their prisoners. 
 
 " Surely, this is some dream !" cried Jeffer- 
 son, very calmly, but with a flash of ange; 
 rising on his face. 
 
 " Say rather, a plot to assassinate us'."' cried 
 Adams, all his tumultuous passion flashing to 
 his face. 
 
 Franklin quietly folded his arras, and 
 whispered with Livingston and Sherman. 
 They heard the murmurs of the men, who 
 gathered at their backs, and saw those swords 
 gleam through the darkness, but were calm. 
 
 " You are our prisoners 1" The form of 
 Reginald rose to its full stature, as he spoke 
 the words. " To crush your schemes, we are 
 forced to control your liberty, until the People 
 
 know your crime. To meet the forces of the 
 enemy, traitors within and foes without, we are 
 resolved to stand in one solid phalanx, our 
 leader, Washington the King. 
 
 And through that dim council chamber, with 
 the lights burning in the centre, and glittering 
 on the blades of twenty swords, rose the deep 
 chorus — "-Washington the King!" 
 
 At the word, which in tlie breath revealed 
 the canker-worm always gnawing at the root 
 of republican freedom — the elevation of one 
 man to supreme power — Jefferson stood 
 aghast. 
 
 " Reginald, you are mad ? Read this, aye 
 read, and then hurl charges like tliese at our 
 heads !" 
 
 He pointed to the Declaration, but with his 
 head erect, his sword circling through the 
 darkened air, Reginald started proudly back. 
 
 " Read ! Have I not read the proofs of your 
 treachery ? Comrades, what say ye all ? Have 
 we not seen the names of these men attached 
 to letters as base as they are decisive ? Gentle- 
 men, there is no need of further words. We 
 are resolved to crush your cabal with our 
 lives !" 
 
 Now came the crisis of the scene. 
 
 Jefferson and Adams stood side by side, 
 while at the other end of the table, Franklin, 
 Sherman, and Livingston formed a group. The 
 face of Jefl'erson was pale, Adams crimson; 
 Sherman stood with his lip fixedly clenched, 
 while the hand of Livingston sought the hilt 
 of the small dress-sword which he wore. 
 
 Franklin alone was calm.~ 
 
 " Advance ! You are prisoners, gentlemen !" 
 
 Jefferson quieUy removed his chair, retreated 
 a step, and confronted Landsdowne, with his 
 nnquading eye. 
 
 '• Do not lay your hand on me," said he, in 
 that calm tone. There was danger in his 
 look. 
 
 Reginald advanced, his sword clenclied in 
 his good right hand, his soul resolved, when a 
 circnmstanee occurred that deepened the 
 tumultuous emotions of the scene. 
 
 A hand was laid upon the arm of Reginald. 
 He turns, all the blood in his body rushing to 
 his face, he clutches his sword resolved to re- 
 venge the touch of violence, and holds its glit- 
 tering blade above the head of Rose ! 
 
 In the hunter's dress, her knees bending he- 
 
120 
 
 THE FOURTH OF JULY, 1776, 
 
 neath her with fatigue, her arms extended, her 
 head drooping on her bosom, she lifts her eyes 
 to his face. 
 
 " Read !" she gasps, and forces the packet 
 in his hand. " It is a plot — a scheme, to lure 
 you on to ruin. Behold these forgeries ! Ah ! 
 I have foiled this dark and scheming woman. 
 Thank God ! It is not yet too late !" 
 
 You may imagine that scene ! 
 
 Every eye centred upon the disguised wo- 
 man, who, like a flower shaken by the storm, 
 trembled before Reginald, as he stood with 
 sword sunk into the floor, his eyes fixed upon 
 his credentials as Delegate to the Continental 
 Congress. 
 
 For a moment he stood as one bewildered 
 in a dream. 
 
 The swords of his comrades f^ll ; Jelferson 
 gazed upon him in sincere pity, Franklin and 
 the other patriots awaited in silence the issue 
 of the scene. 
 
 " O, Arthur," cried the brave girl, her bosom 
 beating against the vest, until it burst the fasten- 
 ings — "Do not wonder, do not pause. I can- 
 not explain it — I know not how it is ! But 
 believe it is all a scheme contrived for your 
 ruin. O, my heart beats and I am so faint — 
 I would fain tell you all, but my father — my 
 brother " 
 
 The storm of feeling shook the Rose, at 
 last. 
 
 Spreading out her arms, while her hair, fall- 
 mg from beneath her cap, waved over her form, 
 she fell. 
 
 But Franklin caught her in his arras, ex- 
 claiming as he gazed upon the young cheek, 
 gleaming so white, through the intervals of her 
 
 flowing hair . " Upon my life, it is a 
 
 woman !" 
 
 Franklin was a Philosopher. 
 
 Meanwhile Jeff'erson and Adams examined 
 the papers, which Rose had scattered on the 
 table. 
 
 " Forgeries," whispered the former. " An- 
 other trick of his Majesty's minions, and by 
 no means the weakest. Those forgeries are 
 excellently done.!' 
 
 Reginald's sword clattered on the floor. 
 
 That sound jarred through the council 
 chtimber like a knell. Ere it had died away, 
 -d louder sound, crashed like thunder on the 
 aiB» Twenty swords fell to the floor. 
 
 Reginald stood as if in a dream, pressing the 
 paper with the same hand that clasped his 
 burning brow. 
 
 " Speak, Landsdowne !" cried his comrades, 
 their voices mingling in chorus — "Is it a 
 trick — have we been duped! Speak — are 
 these men good and true ?" 
 
 Ij was now Jefferson's turn to prove his 
 magnanimity. 
 
 " Reginald, read this," he quietly said, and 
 led young Landsdowne to the table. 
 
 Reginald bent duwn. You behold that pale 
 face, with lips working, the eyes rolling, as it , 
 hurries over the immortal lines, you perceive 
 the clenched hands laid on the table. 
 
 " O, shame !" he gasped, beating his brow 
 against those hands which rested on the 
 table — " To be made the tool of this ambitious 
 woman." They could see the blushes glow 
 beneath his hands. " But there is a remedy 
 for it all ! I can yet atone for my fault! To- 
 morrov/, Jefferson, I will sign it, and, then if 
 need be, spend my life to maintain its truth !" 
 
 He raised the draft of the Declaration above 
 his head, while his comrades gathered around 
 him, and Jefferson shook him by the hand. 
 
 At the same moment. Rose nestling in the 
 arms of Franklin, unclosed her eyes, while a 
 smile like heaven blushed over her face. Part- 
 ing the long hair from her cheek, she gazed 
 with dim eyes — shining through their tears — 
 upon her lover, and whispered, 
 
 " Arthur ! I was not too late !" 
 
 CHAPTER EIGHTH. 
 
 ' THE PURPLE CHAMBER. 
 
 The Purple Chamber in the city mansion 
 of Reginald, combined in one view all that is 
 gorgeous in luxury, delicate in taste, or beautiful 
 in art. 
 
 Separated by a wide saloon from the street, 
 its four windows looked out upon the trees 
 and flowers of an extensive garden. Soft car- 
 pets beneath the feet, a wide ceiling, warmed 
 with the richest creations of the painter above 
 your head — wherever you turned, a white 
 statue gleaming in beauty on you — its dark 
 rich purple tapestry, whether bathed in moon- 
 light, or gilded by the sun, imparted a luxurious 
 tone to the chamber of Reginald Landsdowne. 
 
 It was now three o'clock on the mornmg of 
 the Fourth of July. 
 
OR THE DECLARATION AND THE SIGMEKS. 
 
 121 
 
 A small lamp stood on yonder marble table, 
 plnred in front of the mirror, which reached 
 from the ceiling to the floor. 
 
 By its light you behold the bed in yonder 
 recess, with the white counterpane, seen 
 between the intervals of the silken canopy. 
 Those curtains agitated bv the slight breeze 
 that finds entrance, wave in luxurious folds 
 from the dome of the canopy to the floor. 
 
 It is three o'clock, and across the threshold 
 of the Purple Chamber, there glided two 
 youthful forms, one reclining on the other's 
 breast and arm. 
 
 As they appr.iach the light we will stand 
 here in the shadow and behold them. 
 
 One, a young man, whose dark hair falls 
 aside from a countenance marked with the 
 trices of much suffering, yet glowing with a 
 calm joy on the bold cheek, and shining with 
 deep happiness, in the large full eyes. It is 
 Arthur, Walter, Reginald, attired still in that 
 uniform of green faced with gold. , 
 
 Leaning on his arm, her head upon his 
 breast, the Rose of Wissahikon raises her eyes 
 to his face, and her beautiful hair flowing over 
 the hands which gatfier her to his heart, hides 
 in its glossy veil her hunter's dress. 
 
 It was said by a shrewd Philosopher, per- 
 haps Dr. Franklin ; certainly one who had 
 given ranch attention to the subject, that the 
 most beautiful thing of all that is beautiful, in 
 this lower world, was a — beautiful woman. 
 
 I am disposed to improve upon this thought. 
 Standing in the shadow of this Purple Chamber, 
 I am induced to confess that of all beautiful 
 women, the most bewitching is a pure girl at- 
 tired in a picturesque hunter's costume, which 
 in its turn is only seen by ghmpses through 
 the intervals of her flowing auburn hair. That 
 hair looks brown, and black, and purple by 
 t:um, and reaches to her knees. 
 
 The words that passed Reginald's lips, as 
 treading softly over the threshold, he bore the 
 maiden along the chamber, was remarkable. 
 " This is our bridal chamber !" 
 Strange words these, when you remember 
 that Reginald is yet ignorant of the relationship 
 of this poor peasant maid to a wealthy planter, 
 unconscious of the dear tie which binds her 
 to the heart of Martin Landsdowne. He only 
 knows that she has saved him ; saved more 
 than his life, his honor. 
 
 " This is our bridal chamber, Rose !" 
 She should have made some eloquent reply, 
 expressed surprise at the change in her lover's 
 appearance, or suft'ered an exclamation of 
 wonder to pass her peasant lips, she should, 
 indeed — 
 
 But she did not. 
 
 Nestling on his breast, in the most natural 
 manner in the world, the Rose of Wissahikon 
 bloomed beneath his gaze, and felt her lips 
 mingle with his. 
 
 And then the air that shook the curtains of 
 the window, also shook her long hair, until it 
 waved and shone again. 
 
 At this moment, as bending over his bride, 
 he pressed liis kiss upon her lips, the hangings 
 of yonder couch rustled to and fro. Is it with 
 the wind ? 
 
 Gaze upon that form emerging from the cur- 
 tains, that face, dark with conflicting passions, 
 its eyes dazzling with almost fiendish light, 
 and answer me ! 
 
 The Lady Marion stood a silent witness of 
 this scene of love. 
 
 Her dark hair, which was gathered back 
 from her brow in one rich mass, made her pale 
 face seem more pale ; her livid lip and breath 
 that came and went in gasps ; her small foot 
 pressed against the carpet, quivering as it 
 peeped from her dark dress, all told the story 
 of her passion and her agony. 
 
 Yet the pistol in her extended hand, speaks 
 a language plainer still. She raises it, and in 
 terrible silence takes deliberate aim, and 
 fires ! 
 
 The jarring report crashes through the 
 chamber, but cannot drown the sound of that 
 form, plunging heavily on the carpet. The 
 smoke clouds the sight, but cannot conceal 
 that face with the ghastly wound between the 
 brows. 
 
 O, it is not Reginald, in his young manhood, 
 nor Rose, in the dewey freshness of her 
 
 beauty The heart grows cold to think 
 
 it. 
 
 As the smoke clears away we behold that 
 form. 
 
 There, tossing on the carpet, clutching its 
 surface with cramped fingers, pouring blood 
 upon its flowers from the hideous wound, 
 between the brows ; now writhing until the 
 heels touch the back of the head ; now stiffen- 
 
123 
 
 THE FOURTH OF JULY, 1776, 
 
 marb'e, an old man 
 
 ing out like a 'hini; o 
 straggles with deaih. 
 
 On one side, pale, aghast, at her own work, 
 looking if possible more livid, the Lady Marion 
 stands with her hands dropped by her side. 
 
 Opposite, Rose eliiigs to Reginald's neck, 
 glancing over her shoulder, at the hideous 
 struggles of the dying nian. 
 
 One word hursts from every lip — 
 
 " Michael 1" 
 
 Yes, it is the old hermit of the woods; he 
 stood upon the threshold ; he saw the levelled 
 pistol ; he saved the life of Rose, the child of 
 the murdered woman, whom he once so madly 
 loved. 
 
 You may be sure that his struggles were 
 horrible but brief. That wound had went 
 straight to the altar of life, and dashed its light 
 into darkness. 
 
 He raised himself upon his knees, clasped 
 his cramped hands, and with the blood pouring 
 over his glassy eyes, gasped two brief words 
 with his last breath : 
 
 " YoUU OATH !" 
 
 Yes, even in that moment he cared for the 
 honor of Rose. Yes, Reginald, your oath, 
 uttered in the deep woods in the evening hour! 
 Now answer with a true heart, or shrink, a 
 cringing perjurer, before the last look of the 
 dying man. 
 
 " She is ray wife '." he said, and the old 
 man sank slowly down, and moved no more. 
 
 He died without knowing that his brother 
 lived. And yet that brother stole .across the 
 threshold, and bent over his still bleeding form, 
 uniil his white hairs mingled with the blood, 
 flowing from the fatal wound. 
 
 He died ignorant of the existence of that 
 brother's son. And yet he was there, there 
 beside his sister Rose. He had followed the 
 old hunter to the hou°e of President Hancock, 
 and on the very threshold, whispered a word 
 which directed his steps at once to Reginald's 
 house. Following them, joined at the door by 
 his father, he had heard the sound of the pis- 
 tol, and now beheld the sad result. 
 
 He towered there, the White Indian, gazing 
 with impenetrable features on the scene, while 
 his very heart was torn within him. From 
 his broad shoulder drooped the war blanket; 
 in his tunic of tiger-skin gleamed the h;ir.!in:j 
 
 knife. He gazed upon the mangled form and 
 did not weep. 
 
 "I must to my tribe again!" he said — 
 " Too much blood here !" 
 
 The emotion of Reginald and Rose^ need not 
 be told. Read it in his downcast head, in her 
 eyes, turned wildly over her shoulder. 
 
 And far back in the Bridal Chamber, lean- 
 ing against the. Bridal Bed, which she never 
 might adorn, a pallid, gibbering thing, her finger 
 on her lip, and her unloosened hair falling 
 wildly over her face, the Lady Marion rent the 
 air with peals of horrible laughter. 
 
 She was an Idiot. 
 
 CHAPTER NINTH. 
 
 THE FOURTH OF JULY, 1776. 
 
 The mild clear light of a summer day was 
 upon the roof and steeple of the old State 
 House. 
 
 Beautifully in the beams of that calm hour, 
 glowed every point of the massive structure, 
 its windows glittering like living gold, its roofs 
 with heavy ornaments along the eaves, bathed 
 in light, while the steeples stood clearly out, 
 against the blue sky. 
 
 1 1 was toward the close of day, when the 
 trees in the lawn shook their leaves in the rays 
 of the setting sun, while over the city from the 
 forest on the west, to' the waves of the Dela- 
 ware, the mild golden radiance invested the 
 roofs in a veil of sunbeams. 
 
 The zenith of the sky, calm as an infant's 
 sleep, extended above the scene, a dome of 
 clear deep azure, and on the west, over the 
 wide sweep of woods, h>ige masses of whi e 
 clouds, piled up in the horizon — their forms of 
 snow, contrasted with the green of the foliage, 
 the blue of the heaven — slowly rolling apart, 
 disclosed the full glory of the setting sun. 
 
 Such ti sun had never set for eighteen hun- 
 dred years. 
 
 Not that its glorious beams arrest our atten- 
 tion alone, nor the many dyes which it flung 
 in parting, over roof and tree and sky, alone 
 attract our gaze, but because the Day, which 
 its setting closed, marked an era in the history 
 of Man. 
 
 On that day a Continent in fierce travail for 
 its rights, struggled into birth and became a 
 Peoj 
 
OR THE DECLARATION AND THE SIGNERS. 
 
 128 
 
 As evening came on, the crowd which had 
 all day long thronged the arena of the State 
 House, and darkened in the open space along 
 its front, or gathered in a dense mass, under 
 the Old trees of the lawn, was swelled by new 
 accessions. 
 
 It seemed as if the city had poured its peo- 
 ple from their firesides, and sent them thronging 
 into the scene. Nor was the crowd merely 
 composed of the rich, in their soft apparel, nor 
 of the poor in their work -day attire ; but the 
 men whose hearts beat for their country, were 
 there, and among their ranks, with sidelong 
 looks and ominous scowls, glided the creatures 
 -of the king. 
 
 The women too, were there, some with their 
 young faces glowing more beautiful with love 
 of country, some with their warm lips curling 
 in sneers, as the word " Freedom" whispered 
 on the air, and some, with anxious faces, hold- 
 ing in iheir arms those babes, whose fathers 
 were absent fighting the battles of their native 
 land. They came in silken attire, they came 
 in their coarse linsey peasant garb, they came 
 in matronly apparel, with a mild light playing 
 over their matured brows ; the women of the 
 city and the field, forgetting the severe modesty 
 of their sex, in the interest of the day, were 
 ' there 
 
 For all day long — from the moment when 
 the first beam of light played upon the State 
 House steeple, until now, when its last kiss 
 lingers there — a rumor had crept through the 
 city, and deepened and spread until it filled 
 every heart. 
 
 And all day long, without a moment's inter- 
 val, the Congress had been holding their secret 
 session in the large hall, on the east of the 
 main avenue, while the people awaited in 
 quivering anxiety the result of their delibera- 
 tions. 
 
 As the day wore on, that rumor deepened, 
 "and now, from lip to lip a word thrills like 
 electric fire — "Independence !" 
 
 Let us wander through the crowd, in front 
 of the State House, and see the varying pas- 
 sions painted on each face, and listen to the 
 whispers until we feel our hearts swell with 
 the same interest that fills every bosom. Oh, 
 Ihe eloquence of those women's faces, the 
 stern anxiety of those patriot looks ! 
 
 Hark ! A murmur swells through the crowd, 
 
 you see it surging far from the walls of the 
 State House, away to the trees, that rise on 
 either hand. There is a sound in yonder 
 avenue, the tread of many feet — listen ! that 
 murmur, "Congress has closed its session, and 
 the work is done !" 
 
 Then from that door, with massive pillars, 
 come forth one by one, the members of the 
 solemn council. How the smile upon their 
 faces flashes through the crowd! 
 
 First, while other delegates mingle with the 
 crowd and answer their hurried questions, a 
 gentleman of mild appearance, yet with a bold 
 brow and keen eye, comes to the verge of the 
 steps, and stretches forth his hands. 
 
 Every eye in the crowd beholds his dark 
 attire, relieved by cambric ruffles and lace of 
 gold, for the gentleman is one of Boston's 
 stout-hearted merchant princes. From lip to 
 lip, the murmur runs, " .Tohn Hancock, the 
 President !" 
 
 And as he stretched forth his left hand, 
 holding a parchment in his right, you see 
 Franklin standing with uncovered brow, the 
 foremost of the group at his back, with the 
 sunlight playing on his animated face. That 
 form, tall and c(ngular, leaning with one hand 
 behind the back, the other raised to the heart, 
 against the pillar on the right side of the door, 
 while the face, with the eyes sunken beneath 
 the downdrawn brows, the nether lip com- 
 pressed, the nerves quivering with an emotion, 
 not the less deep because it is scarce percepti- 
 ble. 
 
 It is Thomas Jefferson. Never king upon 
 his throne, never conqueror on the battle-field, 
 felt a deeper joy than thrilled his bosom then ! 
 Glorious Prophet of the Rights of Man, how 
 ray heart beats, as through the mists of seventy- 
 one years, I survey you, standing there, against 
 the right pillar of the State House door, with 
 the sunshine streaming over your glowing face ! 
 
 Stout-hearted John Adams stands between 
 him and Franklin, his face beaming as he rests 
 his hand on Jefl'erson's arm, and converses 
 with him, repeating the word which swells 
 every heart — Independence ! 
 
 Between the heads of Jefferson and Adams, 
 you see the face of Livingston ; while leaning 
 against the left pillar, Roger Sherman gazes m 
 the scene. 
 
 Hancock stretches forth his hand — 
 
124 
 
 THE FOURTH OF JULY, 1776. 
 
 An old soldier, battered with cuts and scars, 
 hobbles up to the foot of the steps, and with 
 the marks of the Indian wars and Bunker Hill 
 upon his face, gasps the words, " Well, Presi- 
 dent, is it all right?" 
 
 There is silence in that breathless crowd. 
 
 Every ear in the throng hears his reply, 
 ■spoken in calm, conversational tones. 
 
 " It is ! This day we have signed our 
 Declaration of Independence ! To-morrow it 
 will be published in the Gazette, and on the 
 ■ eighth day of July, proclaimed from the State 
 House steps. From this day there are no 
 ■Colonies, but States. From this day there 
 is no British dominion, but the Republic of the 
 ■United States of America !" 
 
 Did you ever see a bolt of lightning stream 
 ■in one red mass from the zenith, and then scat- 
 ter in a thousand rays of fire, over the tree-tops 
 of an undulating wood ? 
 
 So these words rush into every heart, and 
 'burst upon the crowd, scattering their rays in 
 every heart. 
 
 The crowd is terribly still for a moment, and 
 then the murmur swells into a shout. 
 
 At this moment, a little boy, whose golden 
 hair tosses about his rosy cheeks, steals up the 
 steps and chitches the President by the knee, 
 and whispers — " The old man in the steeple 
 sent me down to ask you whether he should 
 ring the bell ? Shall I say ring?" 
 
 Hancock pressed his hands upon the head 
 ■of the child, and said — "You will live to see 
 the day, my child, when the voice of that bell 
 will have been heard by all the world ! Tell 
 the old man to ring!" 
 
 Through the crowd, brave boy ! Out into 
 the street, and clap your tiny hands until the 
 old man in yonder steeple hears you. Look ! 
 with his bronzed face and snow white hair, he 
 bends from the steeple, he sees that child, with 
 flushed cheeks and golden hhir, clap his hands, 
 he hears that boyish shout — "Ring!" 
 
 Then the old man bared his arm, and the 
 bell on which was written — "Proclaim Lib- 
 
 EETY to the land, AND ALL THE INHABITANTS 
 
 THERROF," spoke to tlic citv, to the People, to 
 a world in chaius. 
 
 As the tones of that bell go swinging over 
 tlie city, let us look upon the strange tumultu- 
 ous panorama in front of the Slate House, 
 now known forever as Independence Hall. 
 
 It is a picture, or rather a combination of 
 pictures, worthy of the artist's pencil, but 
 which requires the pen of JetTerson or the 
 voice of Patrick Henry to describe. 
 
 It resolves itself into three prominent points 
 of view. 
 
 First, the group on the left of the hall door. 
 
 An Indian stands with his bacli. towards us, 
 in the act of stepping toward a group whom 
 he surveys, his rich blanket, revealing the bold 
 outline of his right shoulder, and drooping in 
 rainbow hues to the ground. His face — but 
 pardy seen in its marked profile, is turned 
 slightly to the left, while over his brow waves 
 the plume of snowy feathers, and down to his . 
 shoulders streams that mass of straight black 
 hair. 
 
 The group on which he gazes ! 
 
 Do you see that young man, attired in a 
 rich dark dress, bending with uncovered brow, 
 before a beautiful girl, who clings to the arm 
 of an aged man ? Her young face blooming 
 with the fullness of life and love, is surmounted 
 by a slight bonnet that crowns her flowing 
 hair; her beautiful neck and white shoulders, 
 and a glimpse of her virgin bosom, glow in the 
 light of the fading day. Her form is elad in a 
 flowing dress of plain white, that waves from 
 the bosom to the feet, while the arm, around 
 whose half-bared outlines flutters a silken' 
 shawl, points to the President's form, as il 
 rises above the crowd, in front of those massive 
 pillars. 
 
 The light which blazes from the young 
 man's eye is reflected in the joyous sunshine 
 of her face. 
 
 That look, flashing from face to face, tells 
 the whole story. 
 
 " This is better" — exclaimed the Rose of 
 Wissahikon — " much better than last night !" 
 
 " To you," cried Reginald, with the blood 
 rising to his face ; " to you, I owe the share 
 which I have taken in the glorious deed of this 
 day. If the name of Reginald Lansdowne, 
 of St. Leonard's, goes down to posterity as a 
 ' Signer of the Declaration,' the merit of his 
 fame belongs to the — Rose of Wissahikon!" 
 
 And while the noble Indian contemplates 
 with calm satisfaction this group — his sister, 
 his father, and the husband of that sister — 
 look yonder, over the shoulder of Reginald, 
 and see that face, lowering with malignant 
 
\ \ 
 
 OR THE DECLARATION AND THE STGXERS, 
 
 123 
 
 passions, livid with crushed hopes, the clenched 
 hand raised to the chin, the cold, dead eye, 
 turning from these glowing faces with hatred 
 and fury. 
 
 1 1 is Gerald Moynton, the brother of tlie Idiot 
 Woman, Lady Marion ; the minion of the 
 King. 
 
 The second point of interest, in fact the 
 centre of the picture, directly in front of the 
 Slate House door 
 
 Three figures, standing in a group, and 
 talking earnestly of the great Declaration. 
 One, with his back to the Indian, his bold 
 profile turned towards us, his hand pressed to 
 his side, grasping a paper, with a book beneath 
 his arm. A long brown coat reaches to his 
 knees. You see, in the outlines of his face, 
 the stamp of a strong genius. The dark eye 
 flashes a fire which kings have felt, and trem- 
 bled for their thrones. There is a mocking 
 scorn upon his lip, which has made the tools 
 of power writhe more than once. Altogether, 
 his attitude, his face, impress us with a deep 
 interest in this man. 
 
 Thomas Paine, the author-hero of the 
 Revolution ! 
 
 That book beneath his arm, "Common 
 Sense," produced the " Declaration," a rude 
 draft of which he grasps in his hand.* 
 
 With that full, large eye, flashing with the 
 consciousness of genius, he surveys the form 
 of Robert Morris, who stands opposite, holding 
 hat and cane in one hand, while he extends 
 thg-other to Benjamin Rush, and congratulates 
 him on the fulfilment of the great work. 
 
 "This is a great day'." he said — this 
 patriot without a stain — this banker without 
 a fault. 
 
 " Yes, a glorious day !" You see Rush, in 
 the earnestness of his thoughts, raise the left 
 hand, grasping his cane, while his calm face 
 glows, and his eyes fixed on the air, seem 
 glancirg into the future "The children of 
 , unborn time will behold its perfect work. It 
 is to you, Paine, we owe it ! The book which 
 you first suggested to me — which I besought 
 you to write — which you wrote and scattered 
 to the world, startled the country into thought, 
 
 » By the united testimony of Washington, Jefferson, 
 Franklin, Ramsay, Rash, and Barlow, the vital agency 
 of Paine, in this great work, is affirmed. 
 
 and wrote 'Independence' in every honest 
 heart." 
 
 As we survey these three men, their faces 
 warmed by the same glow, let us remember 
 the manner in which they died. Paine ^ — 
 having forsaken that Bible, from which he 
 gleaned the truths of " Common Sense" — disd 
 a miserable and heart-broken man. Morris, 
 whose financial genius saved his country in 
 her darkest hour, died in a common jail, to 
 which the holy law of " imprisonment for debt" 
 — which yet obtains in same savage com- 
 munities — consigned him. Rush alone, calm 
 and serene, rich in the fame of science and 
 humanity, died in his home. 
 
 Passing this group, we come to the third 
 point of interest. A confused crowd, stretch- 
 ing away under the shade of these trees, mov- 
 ing to and fro, gesticulating earnestly, as they 
 (wnversed on the great topic of the hour. Here, 
 a fiery patriot rises his arm, as if to strike a 
 calm-faced Tory, who doubts the expediency 
 of the means. 
 
 " It is not yet time, thee sees, my friend." 
 
 " Time ! Zounds, sir, it never will be time, 
 so long as we permit traitors like you to prowl 
 the streets !" 
 
 Thus strolling through the crowd, we may 
 see every variety of expression — every 
 change of countenance ; the hearts of men 
 glow in their faces — speak not only in their 
 words, but in the upraised arm and significant 
 finger. 
 
 And, all the while, that group upon the steps 
 rises above the crowd, the object o( every eye, 
 their faces revealed by the light which flashes 
 from the west ; Hancock, the President, fore- 
 most in the group, while Jefferson leans against 
 the pillar, and the compatriots cluster round. 
 
 And all the while, with a peal and a clang, 
 the bell spoke out, saying to the kings on their 
 thrones — and, of all kings, to the weak and 
 wicked George of England — " Doom ! doom ! 
 doom I" 
 
 Then changing its peal, it spoke to man, 
 whether in workshop or the mine — whether 
 toiling in the field or bleeding in the battle, and 
 the word, that it said, as the sun went down, 
 was still — " Dawn ! dawn ! dawn !" 
 
 Doom to kings — the night of death ! Dawn 
 to man — the day-break of freedom ! 
 
 Thus, as the sun went down, the glorious 
 
12(3 
 
 THE FOURTH OF JULY, 1776. 
 
 Liberty-bell rang at once a curse and blessing 
 on the solemn close of the Fourth of July. 
 
 President Hancock advanced through the 
 crowd, and confronted the White Indian, as he 
 towered in the pride of his forest stature. 
 
 "I have heard your story. How, stolen 
 when a child from the ruined home of your 
 father, you were reared at once by the Indians, 
 an Indian like themselves ; and, by an Ameri- 
 can colonist who had forsaken society for the 
 turmoil of savage life, in all the knowledge of 
 the white race. I know your heart ! You 
 would serve your country — serve Washing- 
 ton ?" 
 
 " Wayaniko lives but to serve the great 
 chief!" said the White Indian, as he stood in 
 the presence of his father,. Reginald, and the 
 Rose of Wissahikon. " Speak the word, and 
 it is done !" 
 
 " Will you ride an hundred miles or more 
 to-night ? Take this parchment," and he drew 
 near the Indian, and whispered a few words 
 — " The horse stands ready for you across the 
 river, in Cooper's woods. To-night," he said 
 aloud, "you must seek the camp of Washing- 
 ton !" 
 
 At once gathering his blanket about his form, 
 the Indian turned, and, with the" parchment to 
 his breast, without a word of farewell to father 
 or sister, hurried to the river side. 
 
 " Now," said Reginald as he took Rose, in 
 all her beauty, from her father's arm — ■• Now, 
 we must away to the home that wooes us witli 
 its smile, the Cottage Home of Wissahikon !" 
 
 CHAPTER TENTH 
 
 THE MESSENGER OF FREEDOM. 
 
 Upon the river a boat glided like an arrow 
 toward the eastern shore, while the last flush 
 of day is in the sky — the last smile of light 
 on the waters. 
 
 In that boat, you see the form of Wayaniko, 
 wielding the oar that hisses through the waves, 
 as he fixes his eye on the distant woods. 
 Away, away — the s.unlight's last gleam upon 
 your face, brave Indian ! Away, away — 
 with the sacred parchment near your heart ! 
 A way, away — for you have a hundred miles 
 to ride, ere the rising of the morrow's sun. 
 
 " To the Camp — to the Camp of Washing- 
 ton !" 
 
 The boat glides into that quiet cove, over- 
 hung with boughs and flowers. Not a moment 
 passes ere his foot is on the shore. He leaves 
 the boat, and hurries into the wood. There 
 a magnificent white horse, arrayed in splendid 
 caparisons, awaits him. At once the Indian 
 unbuckles the splendid saddle, dashes it on the 
 ground, and, with his blanket waving all around 
 him, leaps on the bare back of the steed. 
 
 He threads the mazes of the wood, and, 
 just as the night comes down, emerges on the i 
 public road. Some farmers, returning from 
 their daily toil, behold that white horse and 
 his Indian rider dashing toward them, and 
 shrink back amazed. 
 
 " The camp of Washington ? " cried the In- 
 dian, bending over the neck of his horse. 
 
 The)' point the way, and he is gone 
 
 The night comes down — the stars flash 
 out — and still he hurries on. The steed 
 seems to feel its precious burden -^ seems to 
 know that it bears a warrior form and a sacred 
 parchment, and, with its eye gleaming through 
 the night, thunders away. 
 
 One hundred miles before the rising of the 
 sun — ten miles an hour, with scarce a mo- 
 ment's rest — a second's delay! A brave 
 thing to do, gallant war-horse ; and a deed that 
 will cost you your life. 
 
 Now, in the shadows of a glen — now on 
 the ascent of a hill — now in sight of the broad 
 river, with its opposite bank lined with gardens 
 and flowers. 
 
 Still the Indian hurries on ! 
 
 The only word that he speaks, as he rushes 
 into the view of the belated wayfarer is — The 
 Camp, the Camp of Washington ! The only 
 way in which his dark eye gazes, is to the 
 north, for there they say it lies, there miles on 
 miles away, the Camp of Washington ! 
 
 At last, in the old town of Trenton — which 
 six months afterward became the scene of 
 Washington's last hope — he reins the white 
 steed, surrounded by a crowd who hurry from 
 their doors with torches in their hands. They 
 gaze in wonder upon the panting horse ; this 
 tall rider, with his straight dark hair, lined 
 with a coronal of snow-white feathers, and the 
 blanket of many colors floating from his shoul- 
 ders. 
 
OR THE DECLARATION AND THE SIGNERS. 
 
 127 
 
 Yon may see them stand in the street, cir- 
 clmg round Wayaniko, the lights ahove their 
 heads, the dark town all around. 
 
 "The way," he cries — " the way to the 
 camp of Washington !" 
 
 He sees their extended hands ; that space in 
 the street is vacant ; far through the night 
 clatters the sound of hoofs, and gleams the 
 vision of the white steed and his Indian rider. 
 
 The moon rises, the hours glide, Princeton 
 and Brunswick are passed. The Raritan 
 gleams f&r behind in the light of the moon. 
 The road rises over rocks and hills, then the 
 Indian messenger is lost in the bosom of thick 
 woods. Siill the brave horse, urged to his ut- 
 most speed, bathed all over with foam, bounds 
 from the earth and skims along. 
 
 The moon rises! Slowly up yonder hill, 
 rugged with crags, dark with pines, the white 
 horse toils along, his master's blanket fluttering 
 down his flanks. Not once is that Indian's 
 face turned back ; still his dark eye to the 
 north, still he looks for the camp of Washing- 
 ton. 
 
 The moon rises ! A flying cloud over- 
 spreads it with a viil. Down into the hollow 
 where the brook boils beneath the trembling 
 bridge ; down into the stream with the cool 
 water flowing around the limbs of the panting 
 steed. For a moment he pauses, suflTers the 
 horse to wet his nostrils and his mouth in the 
 grateful current, and then presses his flanks 
 with his knee and bids him on I 
 
 As the cloud rolls from the moon, do you see 
 that wide meadow, its sea of grass waving in 
 the clear light, with the white horse dashing 
 over its surface, while the Indian towers erect 
 on his back, the war blanket fluttering far be- 
 hind him. 
 
 The moon sinks from her throne in the ze- 
 nith. Down through the clouds that float 
 about her, down through the blue vault until 
 her horizontal rays tremble faintly over the 
 wide expanse of hills and valleys. 
 
 Along the dark wood where log huts rise 
 among the pines, the white horse thunders 
 now. Panting, foaming, his mane waving in 
 the cool breeze, he glides along, while the 
 blood begins to mingle with the froth around 
 his nostrils. 
 
 Look ! A crowd of dark forms overspread 
 
 the road ; you see their rifles rise, their knives 
 gleam. Tories in the garb of soldiers ; their 
 challenge rings out upon the night. 
 
 " Who goes there ? " 
 
 But the white Indian does not reply. Hark ! 
 the crack of rifles ; a cloud of smoke rolls 
 round his form. He does not look behind, 
 nor turn to either side; the bullet giazes the 
 tiger skin about his breast, but the sacred 
 parchment is safe. He dashes on. while the 
 Tories, gazing upon his retreating form, heai 
 the deep words — "The Camp of Washington!" 
 
 The moon goes down. Pale and dim, her 
 di^, half seen, trembles over the distant %voods, 
 before it sinks to darkness. The night grows 
 dark. We have lost sight of Wayaniko ; ah 
 the horse has fallen, the rider pants exhausted 
 by the roadside ! Is it so ? 
 
 Look yonder through this gloom that ga- 
 thers so dark before the break of day, a'.id fix 
 your eyes upon the summit of that steep hill. 
 On one side a wood — you see it extt nd, a 
 darkening mass. On the other a level field, 
 overspread with waving wheat. A rude hut 
 built among the trees, gives forth from its win- 
 dow a glare of light. The plain cottager has 
 risen ; he is about to begin his day's toil. 
 He comes forth and stands before his home, a 
 brawny "man, with a coarse dress on his 
 broad chest, the marks of toil upon his face. 
 
 But what sight is this that meets his eyes in 
 the dimness of the daybreak hour ? 
 
 Writhing in the roadside bank, his nostrils 
 flooding the dust with blood, a noble white 
 horse stretches out his limbs, raises his head, 
 quivers along his flanks, and then is still. 
 
 Over him stands a form, which fills the 
 rough laborer with awe. Into the hut he 
 passes, returns with a light, shading its rays with 
 the palm of his hand, he approaches, and be- 
 holds an Indian standing with folded arms be- 
 side the dying horse. The heart 'of a noble 
 beast has burst — look! how its warm blood 
 pours in a torrent over the road. 
 
 The Indian stands with folded arms, his 
 head sunken and his eyes fixed upon the 
 steed. As the cottager surveys that form, 
 with the war blanket drooping from the shoul- 
 ders, the coronal of feathers waving over the 
 dark hair, he starts back with awe. 
 
 For the last time the dying horse lifts his 
 
128 
 
 THE FOURTH OF JULY, 1776. 
 
 head and fixes his eye upon his master's form. 
 Then all is over ; he lays there dead. 
 
 The Indian turns 
 
 " The Camp of Washington ?" he cries, 
 with a voice that makes the cottager start. 
 
 "Look yonder!" exclaims the laborer, as 
 the vrind extinguishes his light. 
 
 There, from the summit of the hill, the 
 Indian looks and sees, a wide expanse of 
 waters heaving in the dim light of the day- 
 break sky — a black mass, like a wall of ebony, 
 extending along the distant horizon. 
 
 That expanse of waters, the waves of 
 Manhattan Bay — that wall of ebony the City 
 of New Yotk. 
 
 "A boat? A canoe ?" 
 
 "There aint none within three miles" — 
 hesitates the cottager. 
 
 At once the resolution of the Indian is 
 taken ; at once ho flings the blanket from his 
 shoulders, the tiger-skin from his breast, and 
 stands there naked to the waist, disclosing a 
 form, magnificent in its broad chest and boldly 
 defined muscles. He winds the parchment in 
 the locks of his long straight hair; secures it 
 with a cord ; and while the plume waves over 
 his brow, hurries to the river. 
 
 A footstep on the sand, a sudden plunge 
 
 Long b'efore the threshold of his home, stood 
 the cottager, watching that white plume gleam- 
 ing from the blackness of the waves. 
 
 Through the shadows of a spacious chamber, 
 struggled the rays of a taper, its waning light 
 imparting a deeper gloom to the massive furni- 
 ture, the cumbrous hangings and the curtained 
 bed. 
 
 A man of some forty-five years, whose 
 muscular limbs were clad in a long dark 
 dressing gown, had sunk to sleep in an arm- 
 chair, after many weary hours of labor. His 
 
 hand resting on the table, still grasped the pen, 
 which marked the unfinished sentence of his 
 letter. By that hand a sheathed sword; over 
 that table a mass of papers, bearing the name 
 of great men and involving the fate of a natron. 
 
 And as this tired soldier slept, the light 
 flickered lower in the socket, and the first 
 gleam of day came through the parted curtains. 
 
 Suddenly a cry was heard, a tramp of a 
 footstep ! At the very instant the soldier awoke 
 from his sleep, started to his feet, and listened. 
 That footstep grew nearer, the door was flung 
 open, a strange form stood on the threshold, 
 bared to the waist, and dripping from the dark 
 hair to the moccasioned feet with spray. 
 
 Yes it was a noble form, with bold features, 
 and large eyes that now rolled wildly in their 
 sockets. Over the brow of this strange 
 apparition, waved a coronal of snow-white 
 plumes. 
 
 The soldier started with surprise, and 
 pressed his hands over his eyes, as though he 
 be held the vision of a dream. 
 
 But the figure tottered forward, tore a parch- 
 ment from the locks of his dark hair, and as 
 he held it aloft, fell like a dead man to the floor. 
 
 The soldier bent down and grasped the. 
 parchment, and hurrying to the window, un- 
 closed it before the first beam of the rising day. 
 
 By that beam of morning light, Georob 
 Washington, with a quickening pulse and 
 kindling eye, perused the Declaration of In- 
 dependence. 
 
 And the same dawn that shone on his 
 
 brow, shone th-ough the cottage home by the 
 still waters, on the sleeping form of the bride 
 whose lips parted in a smile, as in a dream, 
 she saw the dangers that had passed, the trials 
 that had once darkened her life — 
 
 The Rose of Wissahikon. 
 
LEGEND FOURTEENTH. 
 
 HERBERT TRACT 
 
 OB 
 
 THE LEGEND OF THE BLACK EANGEES: 
 
 A LEGEND OF "WASHINGTON AND HIS MEN" AT THE BATXLE OF GERMANTOWN. 
 
 (129) 
 
THE SCENE OF THE ROMANCE. 
 
 The incidents of the battle of the fourth of Octo- 
 ber, 1777, the evolutions of the opposing armies, the 
 characteristics of the American partizan chief com- 
 pared with the British officer, the manner of the fii;ht 
 of Germantown, the scene, the people, and the actors, 
 the self devotion of Washington, the daring feats of his 
 compatriots — furnish the foundation, if not the super- 
 structure of this TJomance of Revolutionary History. 
 
 To those who know nothing about the matter, it 
 may seem a very easy task, to mould a correct and 
 graphic history of a battle-field of the Revolution, from 
 the rough block of history, marred by paradoxes and 
 disfigured by contradictions. Yet those who have trod- 
 den the path of revolutionary romance, which is now 
 essayed by the author, will emphatically corroborate 
 one important fact, which the reader will do well to 
 remember — that the history of all our battle-fields is 
 shadowed by mystery and darkened by doubt; that 
 that there are innumerable contradictory narratives of a 
 single event, that even the actors in the scenes of the 
 American Revolution, have told varying stories of the 
 great battles of the " eight years' war," described them 
 in a conflicting manner, and in some instances covered 
 the whole subject with darkness and obscurity. 
 
 With all these difficulties to encounter, the author 
 has constructed the work now presented to the public. 
 It is important for the reader to bear one prominent 
 fact in remembrance. Thi work is not offered for 
 perusal merely as an idle romance, but as a dramatic 
 and legendary history ...f the battle, prepared from the 
 details of various accredited written histories, the nar- 
 ratives of survivors of the field, as well as the thou- 
 
 sand wild legends of the fight of Germantown, current 
 in the vicinity of the battle-field. 
 
 It may not be impertinent to remark in this place 
 that the first edition of this romance, was received, 
 when published in six periodical numbers, in a standard 
 journal, (the Saturday Evening Post) with popular 
 favor as signal as it was unexpected. Extensively 
 copied, it was returned to the author from all quarters 
 of the Union, transferred into the columns of some of 
 the most noted journals of the land. 
 
 This mark of popular favor induced a Philadelphia 
 Publisher to offer the work to the public in a more sub- 
 stantial shape. It was published in book form in the 
 spring of 1844. The edition has long since been ex- 
 hausted. 
 
 It may be remarked that the work was mangled into 
 Dramtitic shape, by some adroit hireling of the Stage, 
 and played upon the boards of the Philadelphia and 
 New York Theatres, as an " entirely original Drama.'' 
 
 — In the work entitled "The Fourth of July, 1776, 
 or the Rose of Wissahikon," the reader surveyed the 
 scenes of the Revolution, which took place in Philadel- 
 phia, and on the Wissahikqn, in the year of the Decla- 
 ration of Independence. 
 
 In Herbekt TnACy, or the Legend of the Black 
 Rangers, we once more take up the scenes of the Re- 
 volution. The scene of the story is again laid on the 
 Wissahikon, and its main incident is the battle of Gei> 
 mantown. Thus, in one work, we trace the origin of 
 the Declaration, and in the other, behold the sacrifice 
 of blood, which was offered on the field of German- 
 town, in witness of its truth. 
 
 (131) 
 
HEKBEKT TEACY, 
 
 OR, 
 
 THE LEGEND OF THE BLACK EANGERS 
 
 A ROMANCE OF THE BATTLE OF GERMANTOWN. 
 BY GEORGE LIPPARD. 
 
 CHAPTER FIRST. 
 
 THE QUAKER AND HIS DAME. 
 
 " These be troublous times, dame — these 
 be troublous times," said the Quaker as he 
 took his pipe from his mouth, and drew 
 his chair nearer to the cheerful flame which 
 blazed upon the hearth. " The October night 
 is eool — and verily, the fire is comfortable. 
 1 mind me not of a season, when the month 
 opened with such a nipping frost — and yet 
 the woods of the quiet Wissahikon are scarce 
 faded by it. These are troublous times — 
 does thee not think so, Hannah ?" 
 
 " Yes, Joab," replied the Quaker dame, 
 smoothing a crease out of her apron with her 
 hand : " I do think that the times are full of 
 trouble. What with the men of war, with 
 their flaunting red dresses, with their war 
 horses, their cymbals and their drums, their 
 cannons and their weapons of war ; our quiet 
 home on the Wissahikon, is a quiet home no 
 longer. But as the Lord wills it, so let it be !" 
 
 The Quaker farmer took his pipe from his 
 mouth, sent a volume of tobacco-smoke rolling 
 to the rafters of the apartment, and then with 
 a distinct" hem"' resumed his meditative lux- 
 ury again. 
 
 " Verily, Joab, there is not a window of our 
 habitation, from which we may look, without 
 seeing the tents of these men of strife. Well 
 do I remember the time when first thee took 
 me to be thy wedded wife; then thee was 
 used to go peacefully to the field, to thy labor 
 in the morning, and I could bake my bread, 
 and scour my pewter in quietness, without a 
 great big, idle fellow of a soldier, popping into 
 our tenement, and taking what he pleased for 
 nis own, and. looking at our daughter Marjorie 
 9 
 
 as though he meant no good. Well do 1 
 mind me of the time — but was thee not over 
 to Germantown this afternoon, Joab ?" The 
 Quaker nodded assent. " Did thee hear any- 
 thing new of the man Cornwallis, or aught of 
 George Washington ?" 
 
 " I found the village people much aff'righted. 
 Some were removing their worldly goods, 
 some were talking loudly and calling their 
 neighbors ' Whig ' and ' Tory,' and all were 
 running to and fro, in great confusion and bus- 
 tle I asked what all this meant — and verily 
 the village people answered, that the man 
 Cornwallis, who has posted his scarlet men 
 across the village, near the mansion of friend 
 Chew, to the Delaware on one side, and through 
 our quiet woods along to the Wissahikon on 
 the other, did purpose some mischief to the 
 men of friend Washington. But I couldn't 
 get head nor tail of the story. But of a cer- 
 tainty shall we have trouble shortly, Hannah." 
 
 " I fear thee speakest that which shall come 
 to pass, Joab," replied the dame, and then 
 both farmer and his wife appeared to give 
 themselves up to the melancholy contempla- 
 tion of the evils predicted. The whole scene 
 was one of Pennsylvania's olden time. The 
 light of the hickory fire, flickering around the 
 apartment, showing the substantial forms of 
 the Quaker and his dame, in bold relief, and 
 mingling with the beams of the setting sun, 
 which streamed through the deep silled win- 
 dow ; the massive rafters which formed the 
 ceiling of the spacious room ; the snow-white 
 walls and neatly sanded floor ; the oaken table 
 in one corner ; the shelves heavy with masses 
 of burnished pewter, — all were characteristic 
 of that quiet, domestic life, so^rarely discovered 
 (133) 
 
134 
 
 HERBERT TRACY, 
 
 in any place, save under the green trees and 
 pleasant shade of the country. 
 
 The farmer was in the prime of vigorous 
 manhood, with features of massive solidity, a 
 broad and low forehead, a short, square nose, 
 a wide mouth with thin lips, prominent chin, 
 high cheek bones and a dark grey sparkling 
 eye ; and with a frame of great musculftr 
 power, long and sinewy arms, and prominent 
 :;hest whose ample developement his Quaker 
 ^arb, with all its volume, and want of shape, 
 could not altogether conceal. You would have 
 picked him out in a crowd, as the man to head 
 -i charge of dragoons, rather than suppose him 
 the quiet Friend, whose theory and practice 
 :alike shunned the noise and bustle of war. 
 
 His dame was full and portly in figure, with 
 :a calm, placid face, and light blue eyes, expres- 
 •sive of a mild and domestic disposition. Her 
 'hair was half concealed, by the plain cap of the 
 iQuaker sect, and her gown was modelled with 
 the invariable simplicity of hue and shape, pe- 
 ■culiar to the sisters of the peace-loving and 
 ■form-shunning society. 
 
 " In truth, Hannah," exclaimed Joab after a 
 pause, as laying down his pipe, and extending 
 his hands to receive the cheerful warmth of the 
 ■flame, he gazed with a complacent glance 
 around the spacious arch of the fire-place. 
 " In truth. Hannah, we have fallen upon evil 
 times. The sword of war hangs over the 
 land, the dust of the highways is laid with the 
 blood of our neighbors and worldy friends, and 
 the quiet streams run crimson, with the butch- 
 ery of the men of strife. This war parts fa- 
 ther and son, husband and wife, mother and 
 child." 
 
 " Yes," responded Hannah, from the other 
 ?ide of the fire-place. " There is the rich 
 Englishman Tracy, whose mansion is pitched 
 on the rock that looks down into the vale of 
 the Wissahikon, beyond the bend 'tother side 
 of Riltenhouse's Mill — did he not cast his son 
 from him as though he were unworthy of all 
 fatherly love and affection, because he favored 
 the men of George Washington ? Marry, 
 Joab, I often wonder what has become of the 
 poor youth, who hath his father's curse upon 
 him?" 
 
 " I learned 'tother day, from some friends of 
 Washington, that Herbert Tracy, that delicately 
 
 reared youth, joined the Continentals last win- 
 ter, with a number of his father's tenants ; and 
 I likewise learned that he endured the biting 
 cold as bravely, and slept on the bare earth as 
 cheerfully, as the humblest of Washington's 
 people. The son of our neighbor — Henry 
 Heft, commonly called Harry Heft, was with 
 the young man Tracy." 
 
 The last sentence was uttered by the Qua 
 ker, with a covert glance at the countenance of 
 his dame, as though he expected the name of 
 the young farmer to excite some interest in her 
 mind. He was not disappointed, for the Qua- 
 keress gave a quick, nervous start, and ex 
 claimed, with the rapid and hurried mannei- 
 peculiar to the keenest anxiety — "Joab, what 
 didst thee hear of the young man Heft ? Surely 
 he has met with no harm ? He wa« a good 
 youth, albeit somewhat wild. Why did thee 
 not tell me of this sooner ? I should be sorrv 
 where harm to come to him, for, for — " 
 
 " For he hath made offers of marriage to 
 our daughter Marjorie, thee would say ? Nay, 
 nay, dame, were he alive and well, standing at 
 this moment before me, he might not unite his 
 lot with our child. There was a time when 
 I had hope of the boy, when I thought he 
 would be one of us and assume the peaceful 
 garb of the Friends — but no sooner did young 
 Tracy go to the wars, than Harry must be off 
 also, and fight, and cut and thrust, I warrant 
 thee, with the worst of them. Nay, nay, 
 Hannah — " 
 
 " Well, if it must be so, it must. I fear 
 thee speakest truth. But in verity it is pain- 
 ful to think how much trouble and strife 
 among kindred and friends, this dreadful war 
 hath caused. There was the daughter of old 
 Waltham, whose country seat is on the Ridge 
 Road near the falls of Schuylkill ; he is rich, 
 and full of worldly goods thee knowest Joab : 
 she, the maiden his daughter, was to be mar- 
 ried to young Tracy, when the quarrel occurred 
 between father and son, and the match was bro- 
 ken off. Ah, me ! 'tis a troublous time, for the 
 sons of men, Joab." 
 
 But at this moment, as if some unexpected 
 thought had ruflled the usual serenity of his 
 mind, the Quaker rose from his seat, and 
 walked hurriedly to the deep silled window oi 
 the apartment looking to the west, and gazing 
 
OR THE LEGEND OF THE BLACK RANGERS. 
 
 135 
 
 upon landscape of hill, valley and stream, for a 
 moment he seemed lost in thought, or wrapt in 
 the mild quietude, that attends the contempla- 
 tion of a lovely sunset, to a mind sobered by 
 age and experience. 
 
 CHAPTEK SECOND. 
 
 THE MAIDEN. 
 
 The view was full of natural beauty. Im- 
 mediately in front of the window extended a 
 small flower garden, surrounded by a wicket 
 fence, made lovely to the eye by groups of 
 wild flowers of every tint and hue, green ar- 
 bors, overshadowed by luxuriant vines, trans- 
 planted by a fair hand from the glades of the 
 forest, and pleasant walks, and winding paths, 
 separated from the flower beds by delicate 
 lines of greenest grass, while a fair form flit- 
 ting from arbor to arbor, might well have 
 seemed the divinity of rural paradise. Beyond 
 the garden, a sloping pasturage some hundred 
 yards in extent, bounded on either side by for- 
 est trees, sank down in a gentle descent until 
 its verdant turf was laved by the quiet Wissa- 
 hikon ; which flowed silently on, from a mass 
 of greenwood, along the verge of the meadow, 
 under the shade of the trees on the opposite 
 bank, until it was lost in the forest of verdure 
 which terminated the view to the south. The 
 opposite bank of the stream arose in a swelling 
 hill, covered with lofty forest trees, the giant- 
 trunked oak, the leafy chestnut, and branching 
 beech, whose luxuriant foliage, but faintly 
 tinged by the bright red, and glaring yellow of 
 autumn, was basking in the mellowing light 
 of the setting sun, as he hovered with half-con- 
 cealed disc upon the brow of the woodlands. 
 The sky was clear and serene, with light 
 masses of clouds floating in the pathway of the 
 sun . The whole western horizon was bathed in 
 golden light, while the zenith expanded with 
 its intensity of autumnal azure — like the dome 
 of this fair temple of nature— far, far above, 
 and there was a holy quietude, a twilight so- 
 lemnity resting upon that world-hidden vale, 
 that appealed to the highest and kindliest feel- 
 ings of our nature. 
 
 The view was lovely, the foliage luxuriant, 
 the sky serene, the meadow verdant as with 
 tl.e first kiss of spring, but neither view, foli- 
 age, sky nor pasturage, seemed to attract the 
 
 attention of the farmer by reason of their ni Te 
 natural beauties, but rather from some associa- 
 tion of memory, which fixed the valley of lb'* 
 Wissahikon as the scene of some well remen 
 bered incident of other days. 
 
 Joab gazed for an instant upon this scene, 
 and then turning away with a hurried step, 
 sought the other window of the apartment, 
 which opened a view to the north. There 
 were undulating hills and green woodlands 
 and brown fields of upturned earth and white 
 patches of ripe buckwheat, but upon hill top, 
 and gleaming from the foliage of the forest, 
 and dotting the russet of the cultivated fields 
 with strips of white, extended the tents of the 
 British camp, traversing as far as the eye could 
 reach, the tract of country between the village 
 of Germantown and the river Schuylkill, while 
 at short intervals waved the Cross of St. 
 George, stained with the best blood of the 
 children of the soil ; and the hirelings of power, 
 in their gaudy trappings, with their well burn- 
 ished arms, were observed moving hither and 
 thither along the line of the encampment. 
 The view did not by any means seem to 
 soothe the mind of the Quaker, into its usual 
 quietude. 
 
 "I tell thee, wife, it is in vain — in vain !"' 
 he exclaimed again turning to the window look- 
 ing out upon the Wissahikon. " I cannot 
 stifle the remembrance. I stood here — here 
 at this window, and saw him die — and yet I 
 had a hand, a strong hand and stout arm, but 
 I might not strike. I beheld him die " 
 
 " Of whom does thee speak, Joab ?" asked 
 dame Hannah, amazed at the excited demeanor 
 of the staid Quaker. " Methinks thee is won- 
 drously flurried, Joab !" 
 
 " Here I beheld him die. The son of the 
 poor widow over the creek — that poor trum- 
 peter boy in the American camp," he con- 
 tinued, his manner becoming more excited as 
 he proceeded. " It was just such an evening 
 as this, save that it happened in the bloom of 
 spring. He had won his way through the 
 hosts of the enemy — he had heard his mother 
 was sick unto death — and he wished if she 
 was indeed dying to close her eyes. He had 
 won his way through the hosts of the enemy, 
 he had gained this meadow, when thundering 
 at his back came the scarlet men of war on 
 their stout horses, with their flashing swords. 
 
186 
 
 BERBER !• TRACY, 
 
 rie shrieked for mercy and I heard his shriek, 
 but might not, could not save him. He 
 shrieked for mercy, and their swords were 
 bathed in the warm blood of his heart. He 
 was a fair youth, but 'twas a ghastly sight — 
 that ruddy cheek crushed in the cold blood ; 
 those golden locks dyed in crimson red. Ah, 
 'twas a fearful sight — and — I — could not 
 save him " 
 
 •' In verity 'twas a most pitiful sight ! The 
 Lord have mercy nn his murderers !" 
 
 " I could not — could not save him" — con- 
 tinued the Quaker. " But still I beheld him 
 die I" He raised his eyes and hands to 
 Heaven. " Father of mercy" — he exclaimed 
 — " If blood crying from the earth to thee for 
 recompense, is ever in thy wisdom avenged, 
 surely the account of these scarlet men is 
 deeply dyed, and cries for ten fold-vengeance ! 
 He was but a boy and yet they- killed him !'' 
 
 " 'Twas a dreadful sight — a doleful sight," 
 sobbed Dame Hannah. "In truth a doleful 
 sight ! The Lord be good to us, what is that ?" 
 she exclaimed, with an outburst of surprise, as 
 a loud and piercing shriek arose from the 
 garden without, and rang through the farm 
 house. 
 
 The Quaker started quickly at the sound, 
 but ere he had time to move a step or whisper 
 a. word, the sound of hurried footsteps was 
 neard, the door of the apartment was flung 
 hurriedly open, and a girl in the full summer 
 of youth, rushed into the room, her dark hair 
 floating in masses of jet, down over her neck 
 and shoulders, and streaming in unconfined 
 luxuriance over her virgin bosom, bared by the 
 hand of violence. As she rushed into the 
 room, she. was followed by a coarse, ruffian- 
 like man in the dress of a British dragoon, 
 who with a drunken shout, and look of 
 imbecile intoxication, had seized on the 'ker- 
 chief which veiled her bosom, and while she 
 fled to her father's arms, pursued her foot- 
 steps. 
 
 " Save me ! — Father — gave me ?" cried 
 the maiden clinging to the farmer's neck. 
 
 " Come my pretty lassie — don't be afraid" 
 — exclaimed the drunken soldier, as he sprang 
 across the floor with unsteady steps. "Don't 
 be afraid, lassie — don't " 
 
 "Come, feller, this is going a little too fs.r" 
 
 — exclaimed a strange voice, and a blow from 
 behind felled the soldier to the oaken planks 
 of the floor. 
 
 It was a good stout blow, and it laid the 
 crimson-hued dragoon, as quietly down, as a 
 new-born babe. The Quaker who had not 
 time to raise a hand in defence of the maiden, 
 glanced at the stranger and beheld the form of 
 a young man in the prime of early manhood, 
 of a strong, muscular and well proportioned 
 frame, with a face full of honest intelligence 
 of expression, lighted by the gleam of a dare- 
 devil eye, and a look beaming with ingenuous 
 frankness and manly courage. 
 
 " That's a nice specimen of the terror of 
 turkey cocks !" exclaimed the stranger, eye- 
 ing the prostrated soldier, with a gaze of quiet 
 admiration. " A nice pattern of a scare-crow 
 to keep turkey gobblers out of the corn! 
 Haint it, uncle Joab ? What d'ye say, aunt 
 Hannah? — did ever you see sich a beast?" 
 
 " Harry Heft !" exclaimed the maiden in 
 surprise, while her cheek was pale from her 
 recent fright, "Harry Heft!" 
 
 "Henry Heft ! And in this warlike guise!" 
 exclaimed the farmer, participating in the 
 astonishment of his daughter. 
 
 " Why, Henry Heft ! Where did thee 
 come from ?" said the dame, in a tone of quiet 
 amazement, as her lips parted and her eyes 
 distended with surprise. 
 
 The scene would have made a picture. The 
 staid Joab, with his daughter resting on his 
 right arm, while the other was raised in 
 involuntary astonishment ; the fair girl with 
 her arms around her father's neck, her dark 
 hair falling in disordered tresses over her 
 shoulders and down her back, her face, with 
 beaming eyes as dark as night, and dimmed 
 by tears, turned toward the young soldier, while 
 her bared bosom of virgin whiteness, and 
 youthful outline, heaved upward in the light, 
 and glowed with the warm flush that brightened 
 over her face and neck ; the dame slightly in 
 the background with hands raised and eyes 
 distended ; and the young soldier in the fore- 
 ground, unheeding the exclamations of sur- 
 prise, but gazing downward, with his sparkling 
 brown eyes, fixed in an expression of quiet 
 humor, upon the form of the insensible dragoon, 
 laid along the floor, in the careless attitude of 
 
OR THE LEGEND OF THE BtACK RANGERS. 
 
 137 
 
 helpless intoxication ; all furmed a quiet 
 picture for the pencil of John Smith, or any 
 other artist of similar celebrity. 
 
 " Reely, jist to think of the feller's im- 
 pudence !'' excLimed Harry Heft — " a'ter 
 I'd travelled fifteen miles, over hill and holler, 
 and through the red-coat lines, not at all 
 mentionin' my creepin' down the Wissahikon to 
 get cleer of the picquets — a'ter all this 
 trouble to get a look at Marjorie there, and then 
 when I reach the garden gate, to find that feller 
 a-chaseing her about the flower beds jist as if 
 he'd a right to catch butterflies where he liked !" 
 " But where did thee come from, Henry ? 
 How did thee git here ? Isn't thee in danger ? 
 What does thee want?" where the hurried 
 questions asked by the Quaker, who evidently 
 knew not what to think of young Heft's 
 sudden appearance. 
 
 " That's what I call unroUin' the whole cate- 
 chism at once. Now uncle — I call you uncle, 
 not because you're my father's brother, but 
 because it sounds sociable, (the same to you, 
 aunt,) jist set down there while I shut the door. 
 There — it's bolted, now let me roll this 
 sleepin' scarecrow under the table. Marjorie, 
 dear, let me put your 'kerchief roitnd your 
 neck. There now — what's the use of blush- 
 ing so — didn't I pay the scoundrel for his 
 impu'dence 1 — Now all of you sit down 'round 
 the fire-place, jist as we used to do in old 
 times — Marjorie, you sit by me — uncle, you 
 sit there, and aunt, you sit there. Now then 
 I'll tell you all about it!" 
 
 " Henry, wherefore is thee in this warlike 
 guise '" interrupted the Quaker. 
 
 " That's what I was jist a-going to tell you. 
 But howsomever as I've precious little time to 
 spare, I'll jist cut a long story short, and let 
 you know, that I'm fresh from Geore Wash- 
 ington's array — which is not much farther off" 
 than the Skippack Creek, some sixteen miles 
 distance from this farm house. (The Con- 
 tinentals may be a little nearer for all you 
 know.) I'm on a scouting party — but p'raps 
 you don't know what that is ? You do uncle ! 
 very well." 
 
 " Where did thee go when thee left the 
 Wissahikon last winter with young Herbert 
 Tracy ?'' 
 
 " Why you must know that young Tracy 
 raised a company of mounted riflenjen, from 
 
 round about the country here, with whom he 
 joined the Continentals. He mustered some 
 fifty good, bold-handed, stout-hearted fellows. 
 This is our uniform — black frock coat, or 
 rather dark grey — neat little rifle with a ball 
 that never fails — short sword — powder horns 
 — light boots — cap with the feather of a 
 night-hawk in the way of a plume, and that's 
 the reason why they call us the night-hawks, 
 though our regular name is Captain Tracy's 
 Rifles, or the Black Rangers. ' We fight some- 
 times one by one dropped about in spots, and 
 most ginerally we slam into the Britishers all 
 in a bunch, with our rifles cracking away, our 
 plump black horses at the top of their speed, 
 and our jolly war-hurrah splitting the air over 
 our heads. We've seen hard fighting too — 
 plenty of it. Twenty-six of our good band 
 left their bones at Brandywine. By the Lord 
 above us — " 
 
 " Henry, Henry ! What saith the scrip 
 ture? — Take not the name of — " 
 
 '■ I'm wrong, I know it. But these haint 
 no times for men to be pertikler about what 
 they say. But to the pint. I came as far as 
 Chestnut Hill on a scouting party, and then I 
 came on here, through the British lines, partly 
 to see you folks here — partly to see my people 
 over the creek, but more 'specially to recon- 
 noitre round the mansion of our captain's 
 father, jist below the Paper Mill Run. Cap- 
 tain Tracy thinks there's some mischief a 
 brewing, and so I'll jist take a bit of something 
 to eat if you please, and be off". What's that 
 red-coat grumbling there about? He is the 
 drunkenest — " 
 
 " If I mistake not," interrupted Joab, " he 
 is the servant of a young British officer, who 
 with Colonel Musgrave is at present staying 
 at Mr. Tracy's down the Wissahikon." 
 
 " Hey, uncle ! You don't say so ! Then 
 there's mischief brewin' indeed — Colonel 
 Musgrave and old Tracy have always been as 
 thick as thieves. It's my opinion that the 
 captain's father is going to marry that British- 
 er's nephew of his to young Miss Waltham, 
 who was betrothed to our captain before he 
 joined the Continentals." 
 
 " Who is the nephew ? I never heard him 
 spoken of before, Henry." 
 
 " Why, his name is Wellwood Tracy — 
 he's a Britisher born, and he's a leftenant 
 
l;l3 
 
 HERBERT TRACY, 
 
 among the rod-coats. Old Tracy says that he 
 shall inherit his estate when he dies. There's 
 a father for you, to cast off his natural born 
 son — but what's that fellow grumbling about?" 
 " This way, this way," muttered the intoxi- 
 cated dragoon, raising himself from the resting 
 place under the table and gazing around with 
 a vacant stare, which showed that his thoughts 
 were not at all connected with the scene before 
 him. "This way — parson — it isn't far. 
 Two miles only along the Wissahikon. You 
 know where old Tracy lives ? They're to be 
 married at eight o'clock — fine fun — plenty 
 of drink — the leftenant's a glorious fellow. 
 Hurrah — at 'em." And then the drunken 
 soldier performed various imaginary feats, rode 
 over imaginary regiments of Continentals, 
 emptied imaginary bottles, and sang very 
 peculiar songs, from a pocket volume of his 
 own selection. 
 
 "Very well, my feller — very well,'" ex- 
 claimed Harry Heft, looking complacently at 
 the muttering soklier. " Very well — that's 
 jist what I wanted to know. See here, Marjo- 
 rie." 
 
 Drawing the blushing girl apart, Harry 
 whispered in her ear, in a low voice, words 
 which gave a brighter sparkle to her dark 
 black eyes, and brought a livelier blush upon 
 her budding cheek. 
 
 " What d'ye think o' the plan, Marjorie ?" 
 
 "Verily," replied the damsel, "verily, 
 Harry, I think," she continued hesitatingly. 
 " That is I like it very well, but, — but," the 
 rest of her reply was lost in a whisper. 
 
 " Henry, what did thee say to our daugh- 
 ter ?" exclaimed the sedate Quaker. " Really, 
 it seemeth to me — " 
 
 " Never mind, uncle — nothing wrong — 
 nothing wrong. Hist ! there is the signal of 
 my comrade down in the hollow. I must be 
 off, b'ut I'll not say good bye, for dead or 
 alive, ypu'U hear from me soon. Now for old 
 Tracy and old Waltham !" 
 
 As he said this the young Ranger seized his 
 rifle from the fire-place and rushed out of the 
 room, as a clear shrill whistle was heard with- 
 out, leaving the black-eyed Marjorie to explain 
 the purport of those whispered words as best 
 she might 
 
 The plan of my story makes it necessary to 
 yicture to the reader two distinct scenes or in- 
 
 cidents which occurred on the sanne evening of 
 the commencement of the tale, at the hour of 
 sunset in the country around the village of 
 Germantown. Now for the first incident. 
 
 CHAPTER THIRD. 
 
 THE BLACK RANGERS. 
 
 As the last gleam of sunset glanced through 
 the foliage of a long line of towering elm and 
 chestnut trees, whose luxuriant verdure 
 marked the course of a winding bye road, 
 some three miles north of Chestnut Hill, a 
 party of soldiers were pursuing their way, un- 
 der the interlacing boughs, that made a pasto- 
 ral arcade of the serpentine line, and shielded 
 their path and persons from any intrusive ob- 
 server. 
 
 The soldiert, numbering twenty-five in all, 
 were mounted each on a stout and well-hmbed 
 steed, black in hue, with flowing tail and 
 mane. Their tall and sinewy forms were clad 
 in a costume which, peculiar to their body, 
 would have marked them out for observation 
 amid the gaudy trappings of an army. They 
 wore black coats, reaching to the knee, and 
 fitting closely over their prominent and muscu- 
 lar chests, and varied in appearance by a bor- 
 der of black fur around the skirt of the gar- 
 ment, with a plain line of braiding running up 
 in front, until it was terminated by the simple 
 upright collar, buttoning closely round the 
 neck. A belt of dark leather, from which de- 
 pended a powder horn, was slung across the 
 breast ; another belt of similar material girdled 
 the waist, supporting the scabbard of a short 
 straight sword ; while a glittering hunting 
 knife, witli handle of the wild deer's antlers, 
 depended from the right side ; and a small 
 rifle, with barrel of elegant finish and stock ol 
 mahogany, varied by ornaments of silver, hung 
 at the saddle-bow of each soldier. Each 
 mounted rifleman wore a small circular fur cap, 
 with a feather of the night-hawk, drooping to 
 the left side, in the way of a plume. Their 
 legs were encased as far as the knees, in- well 
 fitting black boots, displaying the manly pro- 
 portions of each muscular leg, the bend below 
 the knee, the prominent calf and slopingankle, 
 to every advantage. 
 
 Every man of the party was tall, broad 
 chested, and well proportioned, and every one 
 
OR THE LEGEND OF THE BLACK RANGERS. 
 
 139 
 
 bore upon his rugged features, the marks of the 
 bayonet thrust, the sword cut, and the bullet 
 wound. They were such men as would have 
 delighied the heart of a crusadhit knight of the 
 thirteenth century, with all the wild love of ad- 
 venture — all the daring courage, and all the 
 frank, hardy qualities which mark the soldier, 
 who — as the old writer phrases it — "fights 
 for his own hand " independent of the numbers 
 and discipline of a regular army. And then 
 they sat their steeds so well, so gallantly ; 
 each ranger riding firm and erect, adapting his 
 limbs to the movement of his horse, and gui- 
 ding him without having any recourse to the 
 bridle. 
 
 It would have been no easy matter to have 
 picked men of such form, strength, and stature, 
 from a regiment of common soldiers, yet the 
 leader of the Black Rangers, who rode at their 
 head, was, to all appearance, as much superior 
 in all these, as well as many other qualities to 
 his own gallant band, as they were superior 
 to the promiscuous gatherings of an army. 
 
 Tall in stature, with a form moulded with 
 the outline of physical power, softened by the 
 gentler proportions of manly grace, with a 
 manner that marked him out from the mass of 
 common men, a face warmed with the glow 
 of youth, yet impressed with the indelible 
 lines of thought, Herbert Arnheim Tracy was 
 in every point of view worthy of his reputation 
 (won in the short compass of a year) of being 
 one of the bravest among the brave, the first 
 in the storm, the foremost in the charge, the 
 most tireless in the pursuit — as obnoxious to 
 the enemy in the retreat as in the chase. 
 
 His face impressed the observer with a high 
 idea of the intellect expressed in each linea- 
 ment. His forehead, high and pale, and 
 bearing the wrinkles of thought, was relieved 
 by his raven black hair, which fell- in luxuriant 
 locks almost to his shoulders. His eyes, of 
 that deep and thoughtful blackness which is 
 ever accompanied by strong mental powers, 
 shone like flame-coals from under his strongly 
 marked and arching eyebrows, with a clear, 
 steady glance, that told of old memories 
 stirring up within him, and prospects of the 
 dim future agitating the abysses of his soul. 
 His nose was small and Grecian, his mouth 
 a thought too wide, with thin, expressive lips; 
 his chin was small, prominent, square, and 
 
 decided in its outline, while the general contour 
 of his face was in harmony with the regular 
 lines of manly beauty. 
 
 As to his dress, he wore the uniform of his 
 band, the black frock coat, edsjed with fur ; 
 boots of the same hue ; a small sword was sii'?- 
 pended from his left side ; a hunting knife vvns 
 inserted iu bis belt, and a small chain of 
 burnished steel passed over his left shoulder, 
 supported a lioht hunting horn of silver, 
 rimmed with gold, which ever hung ready for 
 immediate use under his right arm. In place 
 of the feather of the night-hawk worn by his 
 men, his cap wore in front a long drooping 
 plume of eagles' feathers, which fell to one 
 side, and mingled with the luxuriant locks of 
 his raven hair. 
 
 Could you have looked into Herbert 
 Tracy's mind as he then rode along the 
 sequestered lane, at the head of his gallant 
 band, you would have discovered many a 
 bitter thought sweeping athwart the -urface 
 of his soul, mingling with many a memory of 
 the olden time, many a dreary imagining of 
 future doom, and many a thought of those he 
 loved, who loved him not, and many a musing 
 of one who returned his affection with a deep 
 and burning passion. 
 
 A dream — a bright reverie — of his early 
 days was now present with his fancy, and the 
 sunny glades and the shady recesses of the 
 Wissahikon were again around him, and again 
 he wandered through the forests that over- 
 looked the world-hidden stream, arm in arm 
 with that father, from whose heart and home 
 he was now a strangpr and an outcast. 
 
 And then came the memory of the bitter 
 day, when that father's curse rang in his ears. 
 
 There was the small library-room in which 
 the dreamings of his boyhood had been fed 
 with additional fancies from the perusal of the 
 volumes of history and of romance. The dull 
 light of a November day came through the 
 solitary window of the apartment, and again, 
 with words of eloquent persuasion, his father, 
 jbv birth an Englishman, and a Loyalist from 
 principle, endeavored to convince his son 
 of the truth of the cause of Royalty, and ol 
 its intimate connection with his future pursuits 
 and expectations. 
 
 For, after a life of voluntary exile from his 
 native land — after burying his mind and talents 
 
140 
 
 HERBERT TRACT, 
 
 for years amid the shades of the Wissahikon, 
 ■while his heart was eating itself away with 
 deep broodings of one of the last desp.endants 
 of an honored line, condemned to comparative 
 penury, Major Herbert Wallinglbrd Tracy 
 found himself suddenly placed by the death 
 of various intermediate heirs, but one remove 
 from the Earldom of Walhngford, whose 
 domains were located in one of the fairest 
 counties of England, where his ancestors had 
 lived and flourished since the Conquest. On 
 the death of the present aged and childless 
 Earl, Major Tracy would become Earl of 
 Wallinglbrd, and his son, whose strong, innate 
 powers, he had often noted with all a parent's 
 love, would, after his decease, succeed to the 
 title and estates of the ancient house, to add, 
 as the father hoped, renewed glory and 
 increased honor to the records of the venerable 
 line. 
 
 But all his hopes, the hopes of a bold, a 
 strong-minded, and worldly ambitious man, 
 soured by the disappointments of youth into a 
 mioanthrope, were met at the very outset, by 
 the candid and fearless declaration of his son, 
 that he could not draw his sword against the 
 land that gave him birth. 
 
 And then, wound up to the pitch of 
 madness, by this utter prostration of all his 
 ambitious dreams — for Major ,Tracy had 
 thought to win royal favor for his son, by the 
 devotion of his influence to the cause of roy- 
 alty — the father raised his hand to heaven, 
 and, with imquivering lip and steady eye, 
 cursed that son of all his hopes, and then 
 thrust him, like an unclean thing, from the 
 home of his infancy and the side of his 
 betrothed. Her father, Mr. Wallham, had 
 refused to consummate the marriage of his 
 daugnter with an outcast, and pour his well 
 filled coffers at the feet of one, who was a 
 rebel in his opinion — not to his majesty 
 George the Third — but, what was a matter 
 of much greater importance, "to the rich 
 Squire of Waltham" — a rebel to all that was 
 high and holy in religion or nature — a rebel 
 to Loyalty, Respectability, and Wealth. In 
 other words, in his eyes Herbert Arnheim 
 Tracy was a poor man. 
 
 When Herbert -departed from the mansion 
 of his infancy, it was with the determination 
 
 to join the banner of Washington. A smail 
 fortune bequeathed to him by a distant relative 
 in Philadelphia, which he was now enabled 
 to claim, having just attained his majority, 
 afforded him the means of titling out a band 
 of brave farmers' sons, who had known him 
 from his infancy, and other gallant spirits, and 
 embodying them in a band which soon became 
 widely known as Captain Tracy's Mounted 
 Rifles, the Night Hawks or the Black Rangers. 
 In less than a year he had gained honor 
 and renown, and now, after an absence from 
 the home of his childhood of that duration, he 
 found himself returning toward the wilds of 
 the Wissahikon, with the thought of his father's 
 curse hanging heavy over his soul, and dismal 
 forebodings of the future fate of his betrothed, 
 giving a melancholy tinge to all his feelings 
 and fancies. 
 
 His meditations were interrupted by the 
 voice of a war worn veteran at his side. He 
 was a soldier of a quarter of a century's 
 growth, and had served under Braddock in the 
 old French war. 
 
 " We shall have warm work of it to-moriow, 
 Capl'in." 
 
 " Aye, Sergeant, we shall have warm work, 
 most certainly." 
 
 " Trust our band will remember our trum- 
 peter boy, Capt'in." 
 
 " He who was murdered some months since 
 you mean ! Our band of gallant fellows will 
 never forget the massacre of the young trum- 
 peter. Sergeant Brown. How far do you think 
 we are from the British Camp, Sergeant?" 
 
 " 'Bout five miles, Capt'n ; three milfis to 
 Chestnut Hill, and two from thence to Chew's 
 House, which I lam is the location of the 
 Britishers 'campment." 
 
 " It must be about five miles, then, to the 
 Paper Mill Run on the Wissahikon?" 
 " Jist the same, Capt'in." 
 "Do you think it will be possible. Sergeant, 
 to pass the British lines and reach the Run 
 within an hour's time?" 
 
 "Possible and impossible, Capt'in, jist as 
 you take it. If you take the bed of the Wis- 
 sahikon, and pass the Britishers under cover 
 of the brushwood, 'long side of it — that's what 
 I call -possible, and you'll succeed. If j'ou 
 try any other way — that's what I call impos- 
 
(141) 
 
OR THE LEGEND OF THE BLACK RANGERS 
 
 143 
 
 sirle, and you'll not succeed, but you'll gef 
 shot. But what is that thing bowin' and 
 :.crapin' yonder?" 
 
 Herbert looked in the direction pointed out 
 by the Sergeant, and discovered a singular 
 figure, bowing and posturing after a most 
 curious fashion, at the distance of some twenty 
 paces, directly in the centre of the lane, in 
 front of the Rangers' path. On approaching 
 nearer to this singular figure, it resolved itself 
 into a short broad-shouldered negro, with an 
 exceedingly large black fiee, flat nose, thick 
 lips and prominent chin, large eyes with very 
 small pupils, and very large " whites ;" hips 
 and shin-bones of tremendous prominence, 
 feet of colossal size, and g"iieriil figure as 
 grotesque in oudine, and as ludicrous in pro- 
 portion, as though Nature herself had turned 
 caricaturist, and manufactured a walking libel 
 upon the whole monkey tribe. 
 
 " Massa Herbet, Massa Herbet " -^ ex- 
 flauned the negro, making a profound bow as 
 the Rangers approached — 'If dat ar he you 
 jest say so, for gorra-inighty. Lord bless us, 
 dis nigger am tired — dat am a fac. I'b been 
 hunting you, eber since yesterday niornin,' way 
 up to de Skippack creek, sixteen miles from 
 here, as true as my name am Charles de Fust, 
 and I hab'ent found you till dis berry instant. 
 De berry debbil's to pay at home, and no 
 pitch hot " 
 
 "Why, Charley ! is liiat you !" erii-l C:.ip- 
 tain Tracy, as he recognized one of his father's 
 domestics in the negro, " what message have 
 you for me ? Who sent you ?" 
 
 " Dar's de message 1 liab for you, and Miss 
 Marian Waltham sent me. True as mv name's 
 Charles de Fust." 
 
 Herbert took the carefully folded note from 
 the hands of the negro, and, with a quickening 
 pulse recognized the handwriting of his be- 
 trothed in the simple direction — " To Captain 
 Herbert Arnheim Tracy." With a nervous 
 hand he broke open the seal, and read — 
 
 October 2, 1777. 
 
 Dearest Herbert — I am in great distress, 
 and hemmed in by the most fearful dangers. 
 If you have any regard for our mutual love, 
 our mutual fate, come to me ; come to me as 
 soon as you have read these lines. Nothing 
 but your presence can avert the fate of — 
 
 Your betrothed, ^Mahian. 
 
 " God of Heaven !" exclaimed Tracy, as 
 his cheek grew for a moment lividly pale — 
 " the letter is dated yesterday, and yet, Charles 
 you have failed lo deliver it until this moment. 
 Tell me, sirrah," he continued, raising himself 
 in his stirrups, as his eye flashed with anger 
 — "Wherefore this neglect? Answer me 
 truly, or by the next tree and a strong cord 
 shall be yours !" 
 
 " Gorra-mighty, Loru bless, sure as my 
 name's Charles de Fust," stammered the 
 negro, half frightened out of his wits as he 
 stood bowing in front of Herbert's horse. 
 " Massa Herbert, what's de use ob workin' 
 yusef in a p;isshun ? Dese am de facts ob de 
 case. Twi) ihiys ago, Massa Waltham, who 
 libs on de Ridge Road, come ober to Major 
 Tracy's on a visit. Brought Miss Marian wid 
 him — anil de old fellow was seized by paraly- 
 tic stroke while at the Major's — t'ought he 
 was going to die — den him and your fader 
 make up match between his darter and dat red 
 cnni scimo, L"f'enant Wellwood Tracy. Un- 
 der dcni circumstances Miss Marian dispatch 
 me off wid dis note for j'ou. Went up to de 
 Skippack — couldn't find you dar. De sed 
 you was gone out a scouting. Been a foller- 
 ing you up eber since — and here I be, and 
 dere you are, and Miss Marian's goin' to be 
 married to dat renegate disebenin'. So if you 
 Sfwain to do anything, vou better do it mighty ' 
 (lam quick. Sure's my name's Charles de 
 Fust." 
 
 "Sergeant," cried Herbert, turning hur- 
 riedly to the veteran Brown, who rode at his el- 
 bow. '■ Yuii know the place of rendezvous ? 
 The deserted mansion among the copse of 
 horse chestnut trees, about a quarter of a mile 
 hence ?" 
 
 " The place is called the Haunted House ?" 
 
 " The same. Let the Rangers disperse in 
 every direction in search of intelligence as re- 
 gards the force, numbers, and position of the 
 enemy. We meet again at twelve to-nighl at 
 the Haunted House. It is now dark — dis- 
 perse the Rangers, Sergeant !" 
 
 The Sergeant touched his hat, and presently 
 ihe Rangers were seen dispersing in various di- 
 rections. " Charles de Fust" was left standing 
 alone with the Captain. 
 
 " They have a desperate game to play." 
 Herbert muttered in a whisper, that came 
 
J,M HERBERT TRACY, 
 
 through his clenched teeth. " She is mine — 
 mine by all that is sacred. Wo be to him who 
 shall say me nay ! — By the God that lives — " 
 
 The oath was scattered to the air, and the 
 astonished negro beheld Herbent plunging the 
 spurs into the sides of his ebon steed, who 
 swept through field and meadow with the speed 
 of wind, and in an instant was lost in the 
 shad's of a neighboring forest. 
 
 " Dat am berry perlite ! Berry ! To leave 
 me all alone here in de middle ol) de road. 
 Berry perlite; — Gorra-mighty, Lord bless 
 us — sure's my name's Charles de Fust." 
 
 CHAPT. R FOURTH 
 
 THE BETROTHED. 
 
 She gazed upon that gorgeous sunset, lh( 
 beautiful girl ! She gnzed from the archini! 
 window of her chnmber, at I he setting sun, 
 with her beaming face fluphed into brighter ra- 
 diance by the last glimpse of daylight — her 
 blue eyes dimmed with tears — her warm 
 lips, parted by the rising sigh — and her gol- 
 den hued hair, floating in glossy richness down 
 each cheek, and along her neck, and finally 
 resting in beautiful disorder upon th^t virgin 
 bosom with its veins of aznre and its outline 
 of youth and bloom 
 
 The beauty of Marian Waltham was of that 
 fascinating character which so finely and deli- 
 cately blends the spiritual with the material, 
 and charms the beholder with a glance, a look, 
 or a tone ; which enchains the fancy with 
 every motion and attracts the imagination in 
 every attitude, throwing the golden light of ro- 
 mance around the fair form — giving a brighter 
 glance to the eye, a lovelier hue to the velvet 
 cheek, and a winning sweetness to the tone, 
 which seems to convey every idea of the hid- 
 den soul that words of human speech may fail 
 to utter. 
 
 Lovely as Marian was at all times, she cer- 
 tainly never seemed more beautiful than on 
 this' eventful evening, when gazing at the last 
 beams of sunset, from the window of her spa- 
 cious chamber, situated in the western wing of 
 ]M-:jor Tracy's mansion, among the heights of 
 the AVissahikon. 
 
 Her Ucp, raised gently upward, received on 
 each glov/ing cheek, the soft flush of sunset ; 
 her eyes, large blue and lustrous, half closed 
 
 in dreaming thought, were glittering through 
 their tears ; her mouth, with its small lips cur- 
 ving with a fascinating fulness, was slightly 
 opened with the listlessness of reverie, around 
 her Grecian head, along each blooming cheek, 
 and over her neck and shoulders, streamed 
 the luxuriant locks of her hair, whose bright 
 and silky gold, glisienmg in the sunbeams, 
 completed the fascination that hovered round 
 her beauty like a veil of light. 
 
 Her bust was ample, well proportioned, and 
 swelling in its outline, yet delicately formed 
 and full of virgin beauty ; her waist spiall and 
 tapering, yet without any appearance of unnn- 
 tural confinement or artificial restraint; while 
 from her waist downward the proportions of 
 her figure fell in a voluptuous sweep, which 
 gave indefinable fascination to every motion of 
 'hose small and softly chiselled feet, whose 
 fairy trncerv of form peeped from beneath the 
 snow-white folds of the bridal robe. 
 
 And those arms, full, fair, and rounded with 
 the floating line of grace, bared from the 
 shoulder with their beauty gleaming through 
 the bewitching sleeves of air-like lace, and the 
 delicate hands with miniature fingers half 
 clasped in front supporting the goldsn bracelet,- 
 which the maiden was about to entwine around 
 that wrist which needed no such garish orna- 
 ment ; all these charms — the face, the float- 
 ing hair, the half thoughtful, half dreaming at- 
 titude, the air of winning innocence, the in- 
 nocence that implies ignorance of the world's 
 customs which encircled the maiden's features, 
 — all combined, made her seem to the fasci- 
 nated eye, pure as she was, a being to be loved 
 with all the depth of the passion that springs 
 from a high intellect. 
 
 Marian turned from the bright sunset and 
 gazed around her chamber. Ever since the 
 intimate friendship of Major Tracy and Squire 
 Waltham had given rise to frequent visits to the 
 mansion of the former, this chamber had been 
 set apart for Marian and furnished to her taste. 
 The furniture was attractive without being 
 gorgeous. The chamber looked precisely the 
 same as on the day when the fair Marian first 
 retired within its precincts to muse on the gal- 
 lant youth, who had saved her life, endangered 
 by a frightened horse, which rushed with her- 
 self and father over a precipice, and phingcd 
 them in the* waters of the Wissahikon. She 
 
THE BETROTHED. 
 
 145 
 
 even now imagined the noble form of Her- 
 bert, confronting the maddened horse, and 
 w'len his efforts to stay the speed of the ani- 
 mal were in vain, again the picture was 
 colored by her fancy, how gallantly he sprang 
 into the depths of the rivulet and drew her 
 fainting form and that of her dying father to the 
 shore. All this, and the subsequent scenes, 
 the confession of his love, her acknowledge- 
 ment of a mutual passion, and the betrothal — 
 arose to her vivid fancy, and the maiden 
 dashed her father's marriage present, the 
 gaudy bracelet, to the floor, and covering her 
 face with her hands, she sought relief from the 
 pressure of thought in a flood of tears. 
 
 Her attention was attracted by the sound of 
 a footstep, and a low voice whispered her 
 name. 
 
 She looted up and beheld her father. His 
 frame was thin and attenuated with disease, 
 his shoulders bent forward with premature old 
 age ; slight masses of grey hair, falling from 
 under his invalid's cap, strayed along each sun- 
 ken cheek, affording a fearful relief to the pale 
 hue of that face, with the features, distorted by 
 pain, the eye glassy, the lip shrunken, and 
 the brow contracted. 
 
 " Daughter, you are in tears," said Mr. 
 Waltham, laying a thin and withered hand 
 upon Marian's shoulder. " What must be, must. 
 I have planned this marriage, Marian, with an 
 eye single to thy happiness — " he paused, for 
 a violent fit of coughing choked his utterance. 
 
 " When I am no more, Marian, you will 
 need a protector. Lieutenant Wellwood 
 Tracy—" 
 
 Marian turned her head away, and concealed 
 her face in her hands, at the name. 
 
 " Nay, Marian, wherefore start you thus ? 
 Is not the Lieutenant nobly born, and gallantly 
 bred! Has he not wealth ; is not his name en- 
 rolled among the honored and respected of the 
 world ?" 
 
 " Father ! My troth is plighted to another !" 
 exclaimed Marian in that decided voice which 
 betokens the firmness of despair — " My troth 
 is plighted to another." 
 
 "An outcast and a beggar!" exclaimed a 
 strange voice, and the tall form of Major Tracy 
 stood between the father and daughter— "An 
 outcast and a beggar I" he continued, as a smile 
 
 of mingled contempt and scorn curved his lips. 
 " Your troth is pledged to another forsooth ? 
 Why, Marian, I had thought belter of you 
 than this ? What I would you stoop to marry 
 an outcast from his home, a rebel to his 
 king, a man who has drawn his sword in 
 Treason and by the unsheathing of that sword, 
 blasphemed his God ? Would you marry a 
 beggar, fair maiden?" • 
 
 As he said this Major Tracy's brow became 
 contracted vvith a dark frown, and then his lip 
 trembled with an expression of contempt. His 
 appearance was full of majesty, with his tall 
 form and erect bearing ; and his high pallid 
 brow, seared by the wrinkles of worldly care 
 and ambitious thouglit, was shown in bold re- 
 lief, as the last glow of sunset fell on its bold 
 outline, with the dark hair, sprinkled with the 
 frost of age, thrown back in careless disorder. 
 
 But the fair maiden quailed not before his 
 glance. Stung by his taunts into a reply, she 
 raised her form to its full stature, and with her 
 blue eye, flashing with a steady unvarying 
 glance, and with her fair arm outstretched, she 
 exclaimed in a quiet tone — 
 
 " Can a. father speak thus of his son ?" she 
 exclaimed, " can a father so far forget all feel- 
 ings of natural affection, as to curse, with 
 bitter words and sneering manner, the child, 
 whom he is bound, by every law of God and 
 man, to love and protect? Not thus does a 
 maiden speak of her betrothed husband ! No ! 
 Though Herbert were a beggar, clad in rags 
 and banned by the unjust opinion of the world, 
 though he labored under the bitterest curse that 
 ever rose to the lips of an unjust, a passionate 
 parent, still would I wed him, banned and 
 cursed, though he were, aye, cheerfully and 
 joyfully would I wed him, and as Truth lives 
 in heaven, 1 will wed none — " 
 
 " Hold, Marian, hold, for my sake !" shrieked 
 her father, raising his attenuated hands, with a 
 voice that seemed prophetic of his anticipated 
 home — the grave — "Marian, pause for your 
 father's sake !" 
 
 The words died on the maiden's lip, the 
 flush of momentary excilement passed from 
 her beaming features, her eye lost its flashing 
 glance, her form its erect stature, her arm fell 
 listlessly by her side, and Marian forgot the 
 vow of eternal constancy to her lover, w^ien 
 
146 
 
 HERBERT TRACY, 
 
 she beheld, standing before her, the weak and 
 attenuated form of her father, trembling on the 
 verge of the grave, with his eyes, dimmed by 
 disease, warmed into the momentary glance 
 that appealed with such silent eloquence to the 
 holiest feelings of a daughter's heart. 
 
 She sank weeping at his feet, and clasped 
 his withered hands, as she wept. 
 
 "You will consent, my daughter?" he 
 whispered, " You will gratify your poor, fond 
 father." 
 
 Marian murmured a few broken words and 
 Major Tracy stood regarding the fsither and 
 daughter with a glance of mocking triumph as 
 he muttered. " Now this brave son of mine 
 shall know the man he has defied ! Well- 
 wood shall have the bride and the lands, 
 and when the rebel has met his deserts. Well- 
 wood succeeds to the Earldom ! Miss Walt- 
 ham," he continued aloud, " I jiad well nigh 
 forgot tlie object of my errand hither. Lieuten- 
 ant Well wood Tracy has just arrived, and with 
 as little delay as may be, after the fatigue of 
 travel, will hasten to pay his respects to hi^ 
 fair bride I" 
 
 CHAPTER FIFTH. 
 
 TIIK nillDKGROOM. 
 
 A STATELi array of silver candelabra, placed 
 on the mantel, and contiining tall formal wax 
 candles, threw a glaring light around the anti- 
 quated parlor, with its massive mirrors, its 
 Turkish carpeting, its wainscoted walls, adorned 
 with paintings, its old fashioned sofa, and high 
 backed mahogany chairs. 
 
 A young man of some twenty-three years, 
 attired in the uniform of an officer in the 
 British dragoons, lay extended on the sofa in 
 an atiiiude of the most elegant disorder. His 
 legs enveloped in Hessian boots, shining with 
 spurs and spattered with mud, carelessly crossed, 
 his head with its powdered locks resting 
 upon one arm, with his face to the ce'ling, he 
 seemed intently engaged in examining the 
 merits of his chapeau, wnth its mass of feathers, 
 which his other hand held poised directly over 
 his face. He was not an unhandsome man, 
 but there was an air of effeminacy about his 
 small, delicate features, and the jaunty air of 
 every position assumed by his slender and 
 well-proportioned figure, that gave you an idea 
 
 you stood in the presence of the fashionable 
 fop, the man of the world of idlers, the 
 " dawdler " at ladies' elbows, the talker of 
 small sayings, the coiner of compliments, and 
 smatterer of little pieces of all i<inds of know- 
 ledge, which combined together form what the 
 mass call a gentleman, always provided the 
 combination of so many rare qualities is well 
 dressed. 
 
 And Wellwood Tracy was no dull fellow 
 either. A few summers at Oxford had given 
 him some idea of the existence of Greek and 
 Latin, and he was sufficiently acquainted with. 
 them to know that these words meant lan- 
 guages, not celebrated philosophers. A winter 
 in London, passed amid the excitement of balls, 
 routes, soirees, and the thousand other as- 
 semblages of the gay world, had given him 
 some idea of life, and instilled into his mind 
 that fashionable code of morals, which places 
 the winning of a game at cards, and the de- 
 struction of a woman's virtue, on a scale of 
 perfect equality in ihe list of innocent pleasures 
 and venial sins with all these acquirements, 
 and a genteel way of saying large oaths and 
 dainty imprecations. Lieutenant Wellwood 
 Tracy was voted by the world in general, and 
 his messmates in particular, to be a deuced 
 clever fellow, a finished gentleman, in every 
 way worthy of succeeding to the Earldom of 
 Walliiigford, in case the intermediate heirs 
 should hajjpen to vacate diis scene of trial anj 
 care. 
 
 'I'he Lieutenant had just counted each 
 feather in his chapeau for the twelfth lime, 
 when the door opened, and a servant informed 
 him that his chamber was ready for his use, 
 where he might remove from his person the 
 dust, disorder and dishabille of travel. 
 
 " Now for my bridal robes," lisped the gal- 
 lant dragoon, as he tumbled from the sofa into 
 an erect posiiicm. " I wonder where that 
 cursed valet of mine is staying all the time ? 
 What detains the village priest? Well — well 
 Qooking at his watch] it's near the hour, and 
 I've just time to drets. A fellow can be mar- 
 ried but once — it's best to submit with a good 
 grace, so here goes for ihe mysteiies ot the 'oi- 
 let — and ihen she's handsome and rich, and I 
 may one day be Earl of Wallingford !" 
 
 Disappointment is the great misery of life — 
 success the great blessing. Which of the two 
 
OR THE LEGEND OF THE BLACK RANGERS. 
 
 147 
 
 shall be the lot of the gallant Lieutenant 
 Well wood Tracy of His Majesty's dragoons ? 
 
 CHAPTER SIXTH. 
 
 THE VALLEY OF THE WISSAHIKON. 
 
 When Harry Heft left the farm-house of 
 the Quaker, in obedience to the invisible sig- 
 nal, the new moon, with its delicate cres- 
 cent of silver, poised in the clear azure of the 
 western horizon, was shedding around over 
 the woods and stream of the Wissahikon, a 
 shower of softened light, which danced on the 
 prominent points of the foliage, sparkled along 
 the rivulet, and waved in threads of radiance 
 througli the open glades and shadowed recesses 
 of the forest. 
 
 Having passed through the small garden, in 
 front of the farm-house, the young soldier 
 brushed aside the grass of the meadow, heavy 
 with dew, and pursued his way toward the 
 Wissahikon, which murmured through the 
 stillness, its thousand tiny ripples, brightening 
 in the kiss of the moonbeams. 
 
 "Well, may I die the death of a spy" — ex- 
 claimed Harry as he reached the banks of the 
 stream, and gazed around — "May 1 die the 
 death of a riglar built renegate, if this aint 
 purty. I never did see my native stream look 
 so nice afore — and now that I think of it, I'd 
 like to visit my old folks ; but I haint got time. 
 I must get that purty gal out of the clutches o' 
 them Britishers at Major Tracy's, and then I 
 kin sit down and play if I like, but not afore. 
 But where in the name of the Continental Con- 
 gress is that feller Dennis T Dennis O'Djou- 
 gherty, MoDermott, McDonough, McDaniel, 
 Mac " 
 
 " Mac Uivil !" answered a voice from a 
 clump of elder bushes, within ann's-reach of 
 Heft. " And is it callin' a man, dacent and 
 civil, out o' his name, at this solemn hour of 
 the night, ye are, ye spalppayn ? Is thisyer 
 pe'liteness, Harry Heft" — continued the voice, 
 as the bushes rustled, and a small round face, 
 with a very small, and very bright pair of 
 grey eyes, long upper lip and short nose, 
 emerged from the foliage. " Is this yer pe'lite- 
 ness I say ? I'm ashamed of ye, Harry Heft." 
 
 The face gradually rose from amoiis the 
 bushes, and presently a tall, stout figure, clad in 
 the unifo.m of the Black Rangers, leaped out 
 
 on the turf, and in an instant was at the side of 
 Harry Heft." 
 
 "I'm ashamed of ye, Harry Heft" — said the 
 Irishman, with a grave look, and with a merry 
 sparkle in his eye. " By the gliost of Fin-ma- 
 coul, of St. Patrick, St. Pater, and a half dozen 
 more of the rispictable old jintlemen, who 
 raised petaties in ould Erin afore the curse of 
 Cromwell and King George was put upon her 
 sod, I'm ashamed of ye, Harry — there now 
 ye pesky critter," he continued, for long resi- 
 dence among the people of the northern Prov- 
 inces had spiced the brogue of Dennis McDer- 
 mott, with a little da.sh of the Yankee dialect. 
 " There now ye pesky critter, are ye satisfied ?" 
 
 Harry burst into a peal of laughter, and ex- 
 claimed between tthe bursts of merriment ■ — 
 
 " Look here, Irish, somebody must a-been 
 drying your primin' before a hickory tire — 
 you go off at such very short notice. Why 
 you explode at about the eighth fraction of half- 
 cock. Why, Irish, you're gitting quite ani- 
 mated — if you'd only take a'ter me some- 
 thing might be made out of you. You are a 
 reg'lar old boy !" 
 
 " Jest call me by me christen name, Dennis, 
 will ye ? Or pr'aps ye'd like yer pieter 
 spilt?" 
 
 " No, thank'ee not jist now," replied Harry, 
 catching the quiet twinkle of the warm-hearted 
 Irishman's eye. "But come along, Dennis. 
 Let's ford the creek and pass on ; we've got 
 about a mile to go, and the sooner we're movin' 
 the better." 
 
 The Rangers waded the stream, which was 
 not more than breast high, at this point, and 
 taking a beaten track on the western side, pro- 
 ceeded southward at a rapid pace for about five 
 minutes. After walking under the shade of 
 the wood, the path emerged into an open field, 
 covered with blackberry bushes, brambles, and 
 wild vines, trailing along the ground, with 
 heaps of newly cut timber, scattered over the 
 surface of the uncultivated earth. The field 
 was passed and the Rangers arrived at a spot 
 of singular beauty. 
 
 The Wissahikon entered a deep ravine or 
 glen — if either of these names are appro- 
 priate — where the banks arose by an ascent 
 in some plnces gradual, in other points abrupt, 
 into high and massive hUls, clothed from the 
 sparkle of the ripple, to the deep bluj of the 
 
148 
 
 HERBERT TRACY, 
 
 sky, with most luxuriant trees, with foliage 
 faintly dyed by autumn, of every gradation of 
 fantastic outline of form, every variety of light 
 and shade. Here swelling into pyramids of 
 leaves, silvered by the moonbeam.s ; there 
 sloping away into shady nooks ; at one point 
 sweeping down to one brooklet by a gentle 
 descent of chestnut trees, in all the towering 
 height of a century's growth, succeeded by 
 tender saplings, whose leaves were interwoven 
 with those of many a green shrub and verdant 
 bush growing by the water side, and dashing 
 their verdure in the waves of the deep, clear, 
 mirror-like flood ; at another point, circling 
 around some perpendicular mass of rock, 
 whose clefts were green with many a wild 
 vine, the foliage sank gradually from the sky 
 to the stream, with a leaf here and there touched 
 by the moonlight, while all the rest was indis- 
 tinct and dark. 
 
 The stream, winding through the glen, with 
 its deep waters of glassy clearness, reflected 
 the ascending steps on either side, and the 
 small space of the clear blue sky, which these 
 heights viewed from the vale below, permitted 
 to be seen, with so faithful an outline, and such 
 a delicate mass of hues and tints, lights and 
 shades, that it seemed as though the landscape 
 beneath the waters was an ideal and spiritual 
 copy of the real and living landscape above. 
 
 The path which our Rangers pursued, led 
 along the water's edge, and wound among the 
 colossal trunks of wide-branching oaks, whose 
 roots had been striking deep, and whose limbs 
 had been growing stronger for hundreds of years. 
 As they wended along with the silver murmur o/ 
 the stream filling the air, and the soft moonlight 
 floating amid the waving foliage, the Rangers for 
 a time, under the influence of the holy silence of 
 the hour, ceased all conversation. With their 
 footfalls echoing along the wood, and the occa- 
 sional rustling of leaves as they brushed through 
 a mass of shrubbery opposing their path, they 
 pursued their way, until the murmuring of a 
 waterfall told them of their vicinity to Ritten- 
 house's mill — a massive stone building, which 
 rose in strong relief, its grey walls standing 
 boldly out against the background verdure, 
 while a number of cottages, barns, and out- 
 houses, \vere scattered around it on the eastern 
 side of the artificial cascade. 
 
 The Rangers paused for a moment upon a 
 
 shelving rock, and looked back into the lovely 
 glen, which they were about to leave. 
 
 "Och, comrid, Harry Heft," said the Irish- 
 man, breaking the silence which had lasted for 
 a quarter of an hour. " Sure this beautiful 
 spot, with its feathery trees, and soft 
 moonlight, and its quietness and solemnity, 
 brings to mind the place ov me birth, wid the 
 little hut, and its green turf on the bank of the 
 Lake Killarney ! The curse o' God be on 
 the tyrant who driv me frum me home ! Is it 
 blubberin' ye are, Harry Heft?" 
 
 The young American Ranger certainly 
 showed no signs of weeping, but Dennis 
 merely meant the insinuation as an excuse for 
 the tear which stole from his own eyelid, and 
 washed his scarred and sunburnt cheek. 
 
 " What did the British drive you from your 
 home for ?" exclaimed Harry, participating in 
 the Irishman's outburst of long-hidden sympa- 
 thies. 
 
 " Ye've seen a tear in my eye, Harry Hefl, 
 and you may as well make a note ov it; for 
 none '11 you iver see there agin. The wfiy 
 and wherefore 1 left me native country is a 
 long story, Harry Heft ; but ye must know, 
 Harry, that meself and me mother, and the 
 wife and the childer, (not forgetting the pig, 
 be jabers,) lived in the nate little shealing on 
 the banks of the Killarney, and not a care did 
 we know, mair be token we had plenty o' 
 petaties, until the red-coated Britishers came 
 and meddled wid a little still ov me own — " 
 
 '■'■Still? Whiskey still?" inquired Henry. 
 
 " The same. A little bit ov a hand machine 
 to manyfactur' the poteen, ye know. The 
 sodjers came, and we had a taste ov a ruction, 
 and I giv one of the rascals the 'unlucky blow,' 
 not maneing it at all, at all ; but flattened out 
 he was, and it was I that did it." 
 
 " You sarved him right ! Confound the 
 Britishers, I say !" 
 
 "Amen to that. And then they giv me the 
 choice ov the gallows or the dragoon's saddle, 
 for they saw I was a stout, tall felley (fellow) 
 ov me inches, and I chosed the gallows. But 
 the wife clung to me bosom, and the childer 
 clung to me knees, and pursuaded wid their 
 tears, that sed so much more than words, to 
 'list, sooner than be hanged, and 'list I did, 
 sorrow to me soul I And I've never seen 
 wife or childer since." 
 
5 
 
 
 , ^■'*>' » 
 
 
 10 
 
 (U9) 
 
OR THE LEGEND OF THE BLACK RANGERS. 
 
 151 
 
 The Irishman brushed a tear from his eye, 
 and Harry was seized wiih a sudden fit of 
 whistling. 
 
 "Aye! Whistle, Harry, whistle! It's 
 better to whistle nor to weep, and if 1 did'nt 
 laugh sometimes my heart 'ud break for the 
 grief that's tugging at it. Ochone, Erin 
 Mavourneen — I'm making a judy ov meself." 
 
 " How long is it since ye listed, Dennis !" 
 
 " Ten years or thereabouts. We came to 
 Montreal, and seen some service among the 
 French and Injins, and on one occashun, a 
 party of us dragoons were dispatched all the 
 way to Detroit, and the whole kit ov us, barrin' 
 two others besides meself, were riddled by the 
 red skinned Injins. We three survivors picked 
 up our bones and walked off about our business, 
 each on his own petikeler way, for we didn't 
 see any necessity of our returning to Montreal 
 and the barracks, or pushing on to Detroit with 
 its wild cats and Injins." 
 
 " And then you pushed eastward and settled 
 down about Germantown here ?" 
 
 " And here I've lived and wrought for near 
 five years, until Captain Tracy, and a likely 
 boy h« is too, tipped me the wink, and then I 
 followed him to the wars, and maybe I haven't 
 been a bad thorn in the side of the Bj-itishers ?" 
 
 "A regular splinter in their sore-foot, as one 
 might say. But should any of your former 
 comrades see you again, think they'd know 
 you ? 
 
 "It's difficult for meself to tell. But, 
 'sposin' they did see me and knew me, and 
 had me in their clutches at the same identical 
 time ; it's my candid opinion they'd give me a 
 pine coffin, and a dozen bullets. The more 
 shame to 'em and their king, and the whole 
 posse of 'em, by the blessed St. Pathrick." 
 
 " Well, now look here ' Irish ' — I call you 
 that cause it sounds more sociable than Den- 
 nis — I owe you a life for a savin' mine at the 
 rumpus of Brandy wine. And now by the 
 Lord above us, if the Britishers ever catch 
 hold of you, and I don't rescue you, or if they 
 harm you, and I don't avenge you, then may 
 I never know what it is to die a soldier's death, 
 but die the pitiful death of a spy ! That's 
 swor' to, Irish—" continued the good-hearted 
 soldier as he grasped the Irishman's ftand 
 and gave it a hearty shake. " And now let's 
 be off; you know our Captain told us to pay 
 
 a visit to his father's house, and recon'itre, and 
 then bring him word, but I've a notion of 
 pultin' an end to this marriage somehow or 
 other, and to bringin' him word of that too, 
 before he hears it is in progress." 
 
 " Sure, Harry Heft, ye didn't tell me of 
 any marriage. Be jabers I'm all in the 
 dark — " 
 
 " But come along. Let's ford the creek at 
 the falls, here, and travel down toward the 
 Paper Mill, and I'll tell you on the way !" 
 
 Fording the stream, they passed along the 
 road on the eastern side of the Wissahikon 
 for about a quarter of ■\ mile, until the waters 
 of the Paper Mill Run came plunging into its 
 bosom, from a height covered with the build- 
 ings and out-houses surrounding a massive 
 mill. Pursuing the course of the rivulet — 
 which at this point takes a sudden bend to the 
 west on its way to the Schuylkill — after 
 fifteen minutes ha3 elapsed, they arrived at a 
 spot, where a perpendicular wall of rocks 
 arises from the opposite and northern shore of 
 the stream, clothed in every cleft and crevice 
 with giant pines, some growing out from the 
 rock in a horizontal direction, others slanting 
 upward, others bending crosswise, aild with 
 every giant pine, however fantastical in form, 
 flinging its branches out into the moonlight- 
 from the straight and steep ascent of the cliff. 
 
 " Do you see that barricade of rocks, Irish ?" 
 
 " Be jabers, a nateral fortriss !" 
 
 " Upon the top of that mass of rocks, is con 
 cealed as pretty a mansion as ever your eye 
 rested upon. That's Major Tracy's house, 
 and we ascend to it by a winding road. We 
 cross over the stream on these steppin' stones. 
 The entrance to this road is concealed among 
 the bushes yonder. It begins somewhere be- 
 low this tremendous wall. I have it." 
 
 They entered the bushes, and presently 
 were journeying along a road, worn by horses' 
 feet, which wound round the precipice, af- 
 fording an easy, though somewhat sudden as- 
 cent to the platform of earth at the summit. 
 Presently they emerged from the shade of the 
 pine trees, and stood upon the turf of a green 
 lawn, fenced round the edge of the precipice 
 with the interlacing trunks of the pines, forming 
 a natural protection, against the dangers of the 
 steep, with their branches entwined through 
 each other, crossed and re-crossed, and woven 
 
152 
 
 HERBERT TSIACY, 
 
 toorether, so thiokly and densely, as to give an 
 nhsprvpr an idea, that what he beheld was the 
 work of man's art, rather than a feat of nature. 
 
 CHAPTER SEVENTH. 
 
 THE BRIDAL PARTY. 
 
 In the centre of the lawn arose the substan- 
 tial stone mansion of Major Tracy. It was a 
 building of some magnitude, overshadowed by 
 a towering sycamore which rising in all the 
 strength and grandeur of ages, threw its leaning 
 trunk over the gabled ro'of, while its far 
 reaching branches, bursting out on every side, 
 clad with a thick and luxuriant foliage, afforded 
 a pleasant and agreeable defence from the 
 rigor of the sun in the heat of summer, and 
 now, as the moon sank below the horizon, en- 
 veloped the edifice and the lawn in its vicinity 
 in deepest shadows. The darkness was bro- 
 ken by long lines of light ^reaming from the 
 half-closed shutters of the chamber looking out 
 upon the portico which fronted the verdant 
 grass, and extended along the entire front of 
 the mansion. 
 
 " Now keep your eyes about you, Irish," 
 exclaimed Harry, as he glanced hurriedly 
 round at die spacious mansion and the range 
 of out-buildings. " By the Continental Con- 
 g-oss, if I aint very nnich mistaken, them lights, 
 tlashijig from the windows, out upon the 
 jiorch. have a tale of their own to tell. Let's 
 rccon'itrp, Irisii." 
 
 " l?o Si. Falhrick ! what's diat?" muttered 
 Dennis in a tone of suppressed wonder, as they 
 approarhei! the porch. " Do you see any 
 lliincr Iherp, my darlint crittur ?" 
 
 llarrv llrfl followed the finger of the Irish- 
 man wlili his eye, and discovered, fastened bv 
 their bridle reins to a pillar o( the portico, two 
 gallant steeds, whose trappings, the ornamented 
 saddle cloth and the holsters, all showed that 
 their riders were at least military men, if not 
 officers of rank and authority. 
 
 With hushed breath and cautious step, 
 Harry Heft stole along the lloor toward the 
 window shutters from whence emerged the 
 light, and which reached from the roof of the 
 portico to the floor. Each window served the 
 piLrpose of a door, as wcl! as a medium for the 
 admittance of daylight. Gazing through the 
 ifevice of the shutters — the sashes opened 
 
 after the fa? hion of folding doors,being thrown 
 back — Harry Heft beheld a scene which he 
 regarded with evident wonder and astonish- 
 ment, although he had anticipated something 
 of the kind. 
 
 The apartment within was spacious, large, 
 and furnished after the fashion of some sixty 
 years since. It was lighted by a chandeher, 
 filled with stately candles of wax, and sus 
 pended from the stuccoed ceiling. In the cen- 
 tre of the apartment with his back turned to the 
 window, stood a porUy man, with a very red, 
 round face, a very brilliant nose, and a very 
 small mouth, and his ample figure arrayed in 
 the gown and surplice of a clergyman, while 
 his little fat hands, with short gouty fingers, 
 grasped a gilt edged book, from which he was 
 reading. It was the book of Common Prajer, 
 and he read the marriage ceremony. 
 
 In front of him were the bridegroom and 
 bride; on one side stood Major Tracy, with a 
 settled frown on his brow : a spacious arm- 
 chair on the opposite side contained the form 
 of the invalid Squire Waltham, who gazed 
 with a half vacant, half imbecile stare upon the 
 company around. At his elbow stood a gen- 
 tleman of some fifty winters, attired in the un- 
 dress of a colonel in the British army, and 
 with an impressive countenance, marked by _ 
 the lines of care and thought. He was named 
 Colonel Musgrave, and he held the baton ot 
 command over the fortieth regiment. The ar- 
 rival of this gentleman had been somewhat 
 late and hurried, for his boots were bespattered 
 with mud, and his entire costume was marked 
 by the unfinished and disarranged air that at- 
 tends a journey undertaken and executed in 
 haste. Opposite to this gentleman, and 
 forming the right wing of the circle, was a 
 yonng gendeman, attired as a cornetin the dra- 
 goon service of his Majesty's th regiment, 
 
 and with a face and air expressive of nothing 
 in especial, except a very apparent desire to 
 play as critical a part in his capacity of right 
 wing of the picture, as his disordered dress and 
 soiled boots would possibly admit. 
 
 The bridegroom, arrayed in a lustrous coat 
 of snow white silk, with small clothes and 
 stockings to match, buckles of shining silver, 
 and square toed shoes, seemed disposed to do 
 particular justice to his situation as a pro- 
 minent point of the picture. Halting on his 
 
OR THE LKCEND OF THE BLACK RANGERS. 
 
 133 
 
 left leg, with the right advanced, he extended 
 one delicate white hand, sparkling with rings, 
 to the bride, displaying all the beauty and 
 finish of the rufile at his wrist in the action, 
 while his other hand was disposed very grace- 
 fully, with the little finger deposited in a fold 
 of his snow white and gaudily embroidered 
 vest, as with his head erect, and his powdered 
 hair flowing in graceful folds over his shoulder. 
 Lieutenant Wellwood Tracy looked straight 
 forward over the head of the clerical gentle- 
 man, and a complacent expression mantled 
 over his face, which seemed to intimate that 
 he considered himself a very fine point of the 
 picture indeed, and worthy of the pencil of a 
 Vandyke, or a Godfrey Kneller. 
 
 The whole scene was a mockery of a solemn 
 sacrifice, but the victim destined to be offered 
 up at the altar, appeared in all the splendor of 
 her queenly beauty even at that dread hour, 
 when the utterance of a few simple words, 
 and the transposition of a ring, would place 
 her destiny in the hands of one, for whom she 
 cared little, and of whom she knew less, and 
 sever her fate from the silken cord that 
 entwined it with the destiny of him whom 
 she loved with all the purity and self devotion 
 of a maiden passion. 
 
 The golden hair, unconfined by band or 
 cincture, fell in a shower of waving tresses 
 over her robes of white, down to her very 
 waist ; while With head drooped low, and eyes 
 downcast, the maiden, scarce knowing what 
 she did, tendered her hand — cold as the 
 marble of a statue — to her gallant bridegroom, 
 and muttered the responses of the ceremony 
 with a vacant manner and absent air, as though 
 her mind wandered amid, the shadowy crea- 
 tions of a dream. 
 
 Hj,rry Heft beheld the scene at a glance, 
 and as he gazed, he became instinctly av/are 
 of the relative positions of the parties. 
 
 He had scarce time to think of some means 
 of delivering the fair maiden, when the mar- 
 riage ceremony reached the point, near its ac- 
 complishment, where the last binding words 
 are said, and the ring is placed upon the finger 
 of the bride. At this moment Harry felt some 
 one pressing against his shoulder, and a face 
 touching his own, while his quick ear caught 
 the sound of suppressed breathing. He 
 turned his head aside, whispering — " Hist I 
 
 Dennis !" when a hand, placed over his mouth, 
 hushed the exclamation of sudden surprise 
 that was bursting from his lips, and he beheld 
 the face of Herbert Tracy gazing over his 
 shoulder, with his lip compressed and his eye 
 flashing, as he regarded the marriage scene 
 within the apartment. 
 
 Every lineament of his countenance was 
 impressed with an expression so strange, so 
 dread, so unreal and fearful in its character, 
 that the Ranger scarce might recognize the 
 face of his Leader in that high forehead all 
 seamed by deep wrinkles, and relieved by the 
 hair, thrown wildly aside from the countenance ; 
 the full, black eye, glaring from beneath the 
 eyebrows ; the lips compressed as fixedl)^ and 
 firmly as those of a chiselled statue ; and the 
 lines of each cheek so clearly marked with the 
 settled appearance that betokens powerful yet 
 suppressed emotion, and the entire visage, 
 with every outline, shown in the boldest relief 
 by the glaring light which streamed from the 
 chandelier within the apartment, seemed so 
 much changed and altered, that Harry Heft 
 only knew his captain from the simple reason, 
 that it were impossible to forget one lineament 
 of the face and features that he had known 
 and looked upon from earliest childhood. 
 
 Harry felt his hand grasped by that of his 
 leader, with a quick, hurried, but expressive 
 movement — 
 
 "As God lives, stand by me!" whispered 
 the captain 
 
 "As God lives, I will, to the death!" returned 
 the soldier, in as deep a whisper. 
 
 "With this ring thee I wed" — exclaimed 
 the bridegroom within the apartment, as, 
 bending aside with a most graceful bow, he 
 took the fair hand of Marian in his own, and 
 with a delicate movement of the thumb and 
 forefinger of his right hand, proceeded to place 
 the marriage ring on the ivory finger of the 
 maiden. The gold had touched the finger of 
 Marian, and every eye was fixed upon the 
 twain; Major Tracy smiled grimly, as he 
 viewed the accomplishment of his scheme; 
 the invalid father looked up into the face of 
 his daughter ; the eyes of the clerical gende- 
 man wandered from his book ; and even the 
 face of the colonel, as well as the cornet, 
 betrayed some interest in the matter ; ihe ring, 
 I say, had touched but not encircled the finger 
 
154 
 
 HERBERT TRACY, 
 
 when a rushing sound was heard, a hurried 
 footstep, and the tall form of Herbert Tracy 
 stood between the bridegroom and bride, the 
 ring was dashed on the floor, and Wellwood 
 Tracy was hurled aside by a blow from the 
 scabbard of the captain's sword. 
 
 " She is mine ! Mine before God and 
 Heaven !" exclaimed Herbert, as Marian fell 
 in his arms, with a shriek and a glance of wild 
 rapture, that told of recognition. " Mine 
 before God and Heaven ! This for the man 
 that shall say me nay !" 
 
 Ujisheathing his sword with his good right 
 hand, he gathered the fainting maiden to his 
 bosom with bis other hand, and glanced around 
 upon the bridal party, like a noble stag at bay, 
 as he retired one step toward the window. 
 
 Had some sudden and fearful spell fallen 
 upon the stern Major Tracy, the invalid 
 Wallham, the round-faced parson, the sedate 
 colonel, the smooth-faced cornet, or the silken 
 bridegroom, they could not, each and all of them, 
 have formed more finished and perfect statues 
 of surprise than they did for a single instant 
 after Herbert had burst into the room. Had 
 a column of fire shot upward from the floor ; 
 had a thunderbolt severed the ceiling, and 
 scattered its rays of death at their feet ; had 
 the mansion been rocked by the heavings of 
 an earthquake — the bridal party, it is verj' 
 ^robable, would have been somewhat surprised, 
 if not thunderstricken ; but here was a column 
 of fire, thunderbolt, and earthquake, all com- 
 bined in one form, and that form the figure of 
 the gallant Ranger. I trow the bridal party 
 were more than surprised. 
 
 Herbert Tracy 'took advantage of this first 
 instant of speechless astonishment, and pressing 
 his betrothed closer to his bosom, strode with 
 a hurried yet even step toward the window — 
 " Mine she is before God and Heaven !" he 
 cried — " mine by all that is good and hallowed ! 
 Mine by her plighted troth — mine by her 
 vows of love !" he continued, reaching the 
 window, and extending his sword, while, with 
 with a bitter sneer on his lip, he glanced around 
 the room — "And think ye I will surrender my 
 ^laim to any man that lives ? Curses may be 
 heaped upon my head by him whom I am 
 bound to name my father, and death and ruin 
 may stand in my path, but still — by the Lord 
 that lives — Herbert Tracy will not sliow 
 
 himself unworthy of his name ! A merry 
 even to you, gentlefolks !" 
 
 Emerging from the window, he rushed 
 across the porch, and stood beside the steeds 
 that had so lately borne the colonel and the 
 cornet to the bridal party, but which were now 
 held ready for mounting, by Dennis at one 
 bridle rein, and Harry at the other. 
 
 " Mount, capt'in, mount" — cried Harry — 
 "They're comin' — they're comin' ! Mount, 
 and away down the Paper Mill Rim road ! 
 Push for the Quaker's farm house ! Mount, 
 by the Continental Congress, mount!" 
 
 Ere Harry had finished his favorite exple- 
 tive, Herbert had sprang upon the stoutest of 
 the steeds, and with the fainting Marian in his 
 arms, struck for the road that led around the 
 rock down to the Wissahiiion. 
 
 " Now's your time, Dennis ? If you've 
 any sperrit in your lazy bones, mount that 
 horse by the stable yonder — I'll mount this! 
 Hurray, boy, for your neck's in danger ! Now, 
 then — " cried the gallant trooper, as he sprang 
 upon the cornet's horse, and enveloped his 
 form in the blanket that hung at the saddle 
 bow — "now then, 'Irish,' strike for Ritten- 
 house's Mill, right across the fields — they'll 
 mistake the fluttering of this blanket for the 
 young lady's dress. Take the fields for it, 
 and lead 'em on a wrong scent. By the 
 Continental Congress — " 
 
 "Yes, be jabers !" shouted Dennis. "Will 
 it plase your leddyshep to ride the lastebit clo- 
 ser to me ! Och, darlin' ! Whoop !" 
 
 And oflTthey went, like mad devils as they 
 were, the sound of their horses' hoofs echoing 
 far around, and the white blanket of Harry 
 Heft fluttering in the moonlight, like the robe 
 of an uneasy spirit, amusing itself with a mid- 
 night ride. 
 
 The sounds of the horses' hoofs roused the 
 astonished bridal party from the spell of sur- 
 prise, and with one assent, they rushed out on 
 the portico, leaving the invalid in his arm- 
 chair. 
 
 "Call the servants" — shouted the Colo- 
 nel — "Wilson, I say — where's that lazy 
 trooper !" 
 
 " There he goes !" muttered the enraged 
 Lieutenant Tracy with an oath, as he ran from 
 one end of the porch to the other ; " there he 
 goes down the Wissahikon — by the G — s !" 
 
OR THE LEGEND OF THE BLACK RANGERS. 
 
 155 
 
 " 1 ra-yther think the've taken a cut across 
 the fe-eld, Lev'tenant," lisped the cornet smi- 
 ling at the idea of telling the whole story at the 
 mess table. " There they go ! How her 
 dwess does flattaw," he continued, as the 
 white blanket met his eye. 
 
 Without a word, without an exclamation of 
 surprise, did Major Tracy assemble the do- 
 mestics, and rouse the trooper, who was sleep- 
 jig on a wheelbarrow near the stable door, un- 
 der the influence of plentiful potations. 
 
 A short and hurried council was held ; men 
 were despatched to the stables at a hundred 
 yards distance, to saddle other horses ; some 
 started on foot in pursuit of the fugitives ; but 
 amid all their conversation, their imprecations, 
 and their vows of vengeance, the ears of the 
 bridal party were saluted with the sound of 
 the retreating hoofs, echoing from the grounds 
 north of the mansion, to the road on the east, 
 and from the road, through the woods to the 
 grounds again. 
 
 Full ten minutes elapsed ere horses could be 
 saddled for the major, the colonel, the cornet, 
 and the lieutenant ; and the oaths and impreca- 
 tions of the three latter did not by any means 
 tend to increase the speed of the domestics in 
 their employment. 
 
 " Scour the country in every direction !" 
 shouted the colonel, as he beheld his compan- 
 ions mounted, together with the half sober 
 trooper and three of the domestics. " The fu- 
 gitives cannot pass the British lines without 
 alarming the picquets ! This side of the lines 
 they're in our power ! Cornet, you will join 
 me, with that drunken lout yonder, in pursuing 
 the rebel captain across the field. Major, per- 
 haps it would be best for you and the lieuten- 
 ant to take the Wissahikon road. We can tra- 
 verse the country in different directions, and 
 meetat Rittenhouse's mill." 
 
 Major Tracy nodded assent. 
 
 " Look ye, sirs," he exclaimed to the three 
 stout fellows, who, with pistols in their handS; 
 were mounted on strong fleet horses by his 
 side. "Look ye, sirs — should ye come 
 across the fugitives, be careful that you do not 
 harm the lady in white. Miss Waltham. You 
 are all good marksmen — I'll make the man of 
 you comfortable for life who shall pick the 
 rebel officer in black from his horse ! Mark 
 
 ye — he is a traitor, and deserves no quarter ! 
 Away !" 
 
 And as they galloped away in various direc- 
 tions, one of the frightened domestics, a weak 
 and aged woman, entered the scene of the late 
 bridal ceremony, and beheld the clerical gen- 
 tleman, on his knees before Mr. Waltham, who 
 was still seated in his arm-chair, with his head 
 fallen to one side, his eyes closed, and his lips 
 parted. The clergyman was engaged in cha- 
 fing the hands of the invalid, aud the servant 
 drew nearer, and looked over his shoulder into 
 the face of the sick man, and started back 
 with a cry of horror, as she discovered the 
 ghastly paleness of his cheeks, the blue livid 
 circles around his eyes, and the sunken eye- 
 sockets. His spirit had gone from the scenes 
 of marrying and giving in marriage, from the 
 scenes of man's passions, and man's wrong to 
 his fellow, from his daughter, his lands and his 
 gold, up to that Tribunal that knows no earthly 
 passion or prejudice, there — in the solemn 
 words of the Sacred Book — " To give ac- 
 count of the deeds done in the body." 
 
 CHAPTER EIGHTH. 
 
 THE PURSUIT. 
 
 When Herbert Tracy flung himseif upon 
 the steed of the British Colonel, and planting his 
 spurs into the sides of the plunging animal, 
 forced him to take the steep and winding road 
 that led around the precipice, a thousand feel- 
 ings rushed through his mind, and a wild 
 tumult of oppressing thoughts agitated his 
 brain, but amid ail the contending feelings and 
 oppressing thoughts, one idea was uppermost 
 in his mind — a steady, firm and unalterable 
 resolve to bear his betrothed away to some 
 scene of safety, and a desperate purpose to 
 part with his life ere the beautiful being, whose 
 head now lay pillowed on his breast, should 
 be torn from his embrace, by the rude hands 
 of those who had, so mockingly, toyed with 
 her plighted vows. 
 
 Winding his arm yet closer around the 
 waist of Marian, he dashed down the narrow 
 path, plunged into the Wissahikon, and ascend- 
 ing the opposite bank, gained the rocky road, 
 which pursued its irregular course along the 
 banks of the stream. As he flew along the 
 
156 
 
 HERBERT TRACV, 
 
 road wilh the speed of wind, the fresh and 
 breezy night air, fanning the pallid cheek of 
 the maiden, awoke her to consciousnesa, and 
 Herbert felt the warm beating of her heart, 
 throbbing against the hand which held her to 
 his side, 
 
 She opened her beaming blue eyes, and as 
 the warm flush of youth and love again glowed 
 on her swelling cheek, she cast a hurried glance 
 around, as though she essayed to recall her 
 wandering thoughts, and then while the whole 
 truth flashed upon her, she wound her arms 
 with a quick, convulsive movement, around 
 the neck of her lover, her bosom rose and fell 
 in the moonlight, and sinking her head upon 
 his manly breast, she found relief from the 
 tumult of opposing thoughts, in a flood of 
 ■tears. 
 
 Herbert gazed upon her fair face with its 
 beauty half upturned to the sky, and if ever, 
 • during his wild and dreamy life, he felt his 
 soul swell with tlie feeling of intense happi- 
 ness, and every nerve thrill with delight, it was 
 at that moment, when her full and lustrous 
 ■orbs were cast upward, with a glance so full 
 of high and hallowed love, so full of all the 
 trustfulness of woman's passion, and beaming 
 with that winning confidence, unmodified by 
 mistrust or doubt, which the vilest of mankind 
 would hesitate to wrong or betray. 
 
 The sounds of pursuit broke upon the air. 
 Herbert had attained the point where the 
 Paper Mills cast a lengthened shadow over the 
 stream, and a quarter of a mile of forest road 
 lay between him and Rittenhouse's Mill. It 
 was his purpose to avoid his pursuers, to seek 
 the farm house of the Quaker, Joab Smiley, 
 place his betrothed in safety till the morrow, 
 then repass the British lines by the bed of the 
 Wissahikon, and reach the Haunted House by 
 ■midnight. Marian — thought Herbert — could 
 remain concealed in the farm house, with entire 
 safety, until the coming day, when the fate of 
 battle might enable him to place her in a situa- 
 tion of greater security. 
 
 The sounds of pursuit, the echoing of the 
 horses' hoofs and the shouts of the pursuers, 
 broke louder and nearer upon the stillness of 
 the night, and sinking the rowels into the 
 flanks of his steed, Herbert gave him free 
 rein, and in an instant the noble barb dashed 
 along the road, while the monotonous beat of 
 
 his hoofs upon the sod, betokened the ut- 
 most stretch of his speed put to the test. 
 
 A hundred yards lay b.etween Herbert and 
 Rittenhouse's Mill, and a hundred yards oe- 
 hi.d his pursuers came thundering along the 
 road. The report of a pistol broke upon the 
 air, and a bullet whistled by Flerbert's ear at 
 the same moment that the voice of his fath<^r, 
 urging the pursuit, rose high above all other 
 sounds. 
 
 "On — on — let him not escape with life! 
 Let your aim be sure, and the bullet certain of 
 its mark ! Onward, mv brave men, onward !" 
 " I will foil them yet !" Herbert muttered 
 between his teeth, as he recognized the tones 
 of his father's voice. " Here is Rittenhouse's 
 Mill — the moon has gone down, and the 
 night is dark — now God help me!" 
 
 As the exclamation rose upon his lips, the 
 sound of horses' hoofs which rose in his rear, 
 were echoed by similar sounds on the opposite 
 bank of the stream, and the crashing of brush- 
 wood and the rustling of branches, gave Her- 
 bert warning- that his escape was cut off be- 
 yond the Mill. 
 
 1 he crisis came. The Mill was reached, 
 the party on the opposite side came thundpring 
 through the . woods, and the voice of Mijnr 
 Tracy was heard, nearer and yet more near ; 
 when, reining his steed up against a small and 
 perpendicular rock which peeped out from 
 among a mass of brushwood, Herbert loosened 
 his feet from tne stirrups, and gathering his 
 arm around the waist of Marian, with a firmer 
 embrace, sprang from the horse, upon the 
 rock, amid the shelter of the environing shrub- 
 bery. 
 
 As he sprang, the affrighted horse bounded 
 forward, dashed through the stream, swept up 
 the road that traversed the opposite hill, and 
 with the speed of a bolt, driven from the bow, 
 disappeared in the shade of the wood. 
 
 As he disappeared, the party of Colonel 
 Musgrave emerged from the woods on the op- 
 posite bank of the stream. Almost at the very 
 same instant Major Tracy with his men, 
 rushed along with the speed of lightning, 
 within an arm's reach of the spot upon which 
 Herbert stood, and passing bet;ween the rock 
 and the Mill, dashed into the Wissahikon, and 
 ere he was aware he confronted the colonel 
 and his company in mid-stream. ' 
 

 -'' '::».■ 
 
 :::,-I--l 
 
 o 
 
 
 (liT) 
 
OR THE LEGEND OF THE BLACK RANGERS. 
 
 159 
 
 •' Which way went the fugitives ?" shouted 
 Col. Musgrave. 
 
 " Do you not hear the horses' hoofs upon 
 the hill !" replied the stern and commanding 
 voice of Major Tracy — " away ! away ! We 
 trifle — we lose time ! away !" 
 
 " We'll have them now, by " exclaimed 
 
 the voice of Lieutenant Wellwood. " They 
 cannot be more than fifty yards ahead ! Now 
 for 't my men !" 
 
 And with one assent the pursuers joined 
 their forces, and galloping up the opposite 
 bank of the stream, in the direction taken by 
 the steed which Herbert had just abandoned, 
 their forms were lost in the shades of the forest, 
 and the echoing of t.heir horses' hoofs began to 
 grew fainter on the air. 
 
 Herbert had well calculated his address and 
 dexterity, combined with an intimate acquain- 
 tance with the spot, when he took the sudden 
 leap from the saddle on to the rock, among the 
 surrounding brushwood. In his youthful 
 ramblings near the Mill, he had discovered a 
 path, perhaps worn by the feet of Indians, an 
 age before, winding along the nooks, the 
 heights and recesses of the hills forming the 
 eastern bank of the stream. The entrance 
 to, this path, within a few feet of the Mill, was 
 hidden by the branches of the trees mingling 
 with the light shrubbery, that grew upon the 
 perpendicular rocks, separating the road from 
 the forest. In the moment of peril, the mem- 
 ory of the rock and the secret path flashed 
 upon his mind, and in an instant, he availed 
 himself of the remembrance, and eluded pur- 
 suit in the very crisis of the chase. 
 
 As the sounds of the pursuing party came 
 softened and almost hushed by distance to the 
 ears of the lovers, Herbert gave Marian the 
 support of his arm, and they threaded their 
 way along the winding path through the 
 woods, until they emerged upon the meadow 
 sloping, from farmer Smiley's house down to 
 the Wissahikon. Approaching the farm house, 
 they found they had been preceded by Harry 
 Heft and his friend Dennis, who it seems had 
 succeeded in persuading the Quaker to receive 
 the betrothed of Herbert, under the shelter of 
 his roof, for a few .days until the fortune of 
 war might enable the lovers to unite their 
 fates beyond danger of separation. After he 
 haa seen Marian safe under the peaceful roof, 
 
 and attended fv the care of the young Quaker- 
 ess, Herbert departed from the farm house, 
 with a promise to return at the earliest moment 
 that might aflx)rd an opportunity. Dennis and 
 Harry proceeded to take their way to the Wis- 
 sahikon on their return to the American lines, 
 in another direction from that taken by Her- 
 bert, who paused an instant on the bank of the 
 stream, ere he plunged into the recesses of the 
 woods. 
 
 As he looksd back upon the quiet home of 
 the Quaker farmer sleeping in the starlight, a 
 fearful presentiment crossed his mind, that he 
 should never gaze upon his betrothed again — 
 that some dire calamity was hovering over 
 their path — that some overwhelming evil, was 
 even now gathering blackness upon the horizon 
 of their sky, about to burst upon their heads, 
 and crush every fair prospect of their lives un- 
 der its leaden pall. 
 
 " Come what will " — said Herbert, " come 
 what will, my resolve is taken. My hand and 
 sword shall be raised, first in defence of the 
 hills and vales of this fair land of my birth ; 
 and then in defence of the maiden, bound to 
 me by the solemn vows of our blighted troth. 
 Death may come, and ruin may threaten — 
 but their approach shall be met with honor." 
 
 CHAPTER NINTH. 
 
 THE COUNCIL. 
 
 The hills and vales of the Wissahikon slept 
 in the silence of midnight, when a solitary 
 horseman issued from the mass of forest trees, 
 near the Haunted House, and taking his way 
 across an intervening field, presently reined in 
 his steed along the front of the mansion. 
 
 It was a small, one storied building, marked 
 by a style of architecture which mingled the 
 steep, gable-ended roof of a cottage, with the 
 high and pointed windows of the Gothic order ; 
 while the eves of the mansion were heavy 
 with carved work, the window frames were 
 decorated with quaint devices in wood ; the nu- 
 merous chimneys by which it was surmounted 
 seemed as much contrived for ornament as use 
 and the general air and appearance of the 
 place, indicated that it might have been the 
 abode of some wealthy admirer of the country, 
 who had here fixed himself a home amid the 
 solitude and shade of the woods. 
 
160 
 
 HERBERT TRACT. 
 
 It was situated on a gentle eminence ap- 
 proached by steps of stone, built in the grassy 
 sank, and the limited lawn which sloped from 
 hree sides of the picturesque edifice, was 
 erniinated by a pleasant grove of horse-chest- 
 lut trees, giving an air of seclusion to the spot, 
 while the ground in the rear was occupied by 
 i garden, once agreeably diversified with 
 flov^erB, but now overgrown and choked by 
 weeds. 
 
 The edifice had, in fact, been the summer 
 abode of a wealthy English merchant of Phila- 
 delphia, who was scared from its precincts by 
 the noise and confusion of war. 
 
 Deserted by its proprietor, the mansion had 
 fallen into partial decay, and was alternately 
 occupied by marauding parties of (he Ameri- 
 can and British armies, who not unfrequently 
 awoke the echoes of its quiet walls, with 
 sounds of mirth and revelry, which, perchance 
 was the occasion of its name — the Haunted 
 House — the songs and yells of the drunken 
 troopers being mistaken by the surrounding 
 farmers for the cries and shrieks of spirits of 
 the unreal world. 
 
 As the horseman halted in front of the 
 Haunted House, a figure, attired in the uniform 
 of the Black Rangers, advanced from the shade 
 of the horse chestnut treofi, exclaiming — 
 
 " Well, Capt'in, is that you 1 Dennis and 
 Leftenant Heft has just come in — 1 was 
 afeared something mought a-happcned to you." 
 " Aye, Sergeant, I am back again without 
 harm or injury. But tell me — has the com- 
 mander-in-chief arrived ? If my eyes do not 
 deceive me, those dusky masses, scattered 
 across the fields yonder, are the American 
 troops, and the glimmer of their arras in the 
 starlight shows that they are ready for action 
 at a moment's warning." 
 
 " Gineral Washington has arrived " — replied 
 the Sergeant — " and the Black Rangers are 
 honored with the post of ' Guard around the 
 Haunted House.' But with regard to the 
 information, gathered to-night by the Ran- 
 gers " 
 
 Having been put in possession of this 
 information, Herbert sprang from his horse, 
 and was admitted by a sentinel into a front 
 chamber of the mansion, where a glaring light, 
 burning upon a large oaken table, discovered 
 the hgures of a number of officers, of various '. 
 
 ranks and grades, attired in the blue and buff 
 uniform of the Continental service. 
 
 " It will be advisable to begin the attack 
 before sunrise to-morrow morning," exclaimed 
 the officer who sat at the head of the table, as 
 Captain Tnicy entered. " This is the plan of 
 the battle agreed upon," he continued, laying 
 his hand upon an unrolled chart which was 
 spread open upon the table — " the divisions 
 of General Sullivan and Wayne, flanked by 
 the Brig:ide of General Conway, will enter 
 the village of Germantown, and commence t!ie 
 attack, with the light infantry of the enemy 
 who are posted at Allen's House, at some three 
 miles distance from this place. Ah ! Captain 
 Tracy, I am glad to welcome you back ; how 
 have you succeeded in your mission?" 
 
 Herbert proceeded as briefly as possible to 
 relate to the Commanner-in-Chief, the various 
 facts in his possession relative to the force, 
 numbers, and position of the enemy. 
 
 " The British line of encampment crosses 
 the village of Germantown at right angles," 
 said Herbert, " near the centre. The left wing 
 extends from the main road, across the irregular 
 and enclosed grounds of the various farmers, 
 over the Wissahikon along to the river Schuyl- 
 kill. It is covered in front, by mounted and dis 
 mounted chasseurs, and the right which extends 
 eastward toward the Delaware, is defended in 
 front by the Queen's American Rangers and 
 a battalion of light infantry. The 40th regi- 
 ment, under the command of Lieutenant Col. 
 Musgrave, is posted nearly a mile in advance 
 of the main line, between Chew's House and 
 Chestnut Hill, and a battalion of light infantry 
 occupies the summit of the hill, three miles in 
 advance of this spot." 
 
 " Your information. Captain Tracy," said 
 the Commander-in-Chief, "agrees, in every 
 essential point, with the data already in my 
 possession. So, gentlemen, our original plan 
 of battle holds good. While the divisions of 
 Generals Wayne and Sullivan enter the village 
 ' y -way of Chestnut Hill, the divisions of 
 Greene and Stephens, flanked by McDougall's 
 brigade, will take a circuit along the Limekiln 
 Road, some two miles eastward from Chew's 
 House, and attack the enemy's right wing. 
 The Militia of Maryland and New Jersey, 
 under command of Generals Smallwood and 
 Forma n and march down the Old York 
 
OR THE LEGEND OF THE BLACK K.iNGERS. 
 
 Kl 
 
 Road, which lies three miles to the east of the 
 Limekiln Road, and engage with the rear of 
 the right. General Armstrong's Pennsylvania 
 brigade will attack the enemy's left at Van- 
 during's Mill, at the junction of the Wissahikon 
 with the Schuylkill. Think you. Captain 
 Tracy, that we shall be able to surprise the 
 enemy?" 
 
 " I think the movement ir-'Tht be effected, 
 with care and celerity, your Kxcellency." 
 
 A shade of thought came over the noble 
 brow of the Commander-in-Chief, and he 
 'eaned his head musingly upon his hand for an 
 instant. 
 
 "Gentlemen," he exclaimed, after the pause 
 of a moment, " I need not tell you that every 
 thing depends upon the suddenness and secresy 
 of our movements. If we surprise the enemy, 
 we shall terminate this disastrous war, and 
 win the best of all boons, our country's Inde- 
 pendence ; if the enemy are on the alert, and 
 ready to receive us, it is more than probable 
 that the superior discipline of his troops will 
 triumph over the irregular bravery and undis- 
 ciplined courage of a great portion of the army 
 which I have the honor to command. What 
 think ye, gentlemen ?" 
 
 And as each hardy veteran or brave aspirant 
 gave. his opinion, the scene assumed an appear- 
 ance of interest, which indicated the fixed de- 
 termination of the American commanders, never 
 to lay down the swords they so gallantly un- 
 sheathed, until the independence of their com- 
 mon country was achieved. 
 
 The glaring light of the lamps, placed in the 
 centre of the oaken table, cast a ruddy glow 
 Upon the faces and forms that clustered round 
 the Commander-in-chief 
 
 His face so calm, so mild, and yet so 
 full of that native dignity of expression, which 
 tells of a mind formed to rule, was shown in 
 the boldest light and strongest shade, as he 
 turned from one brave man to another, to re- 
 ceive their opinions and suggestions on the 
 coming contest. 
 
 There was the towering form, and bold and 
 open countenance of Wayne, whose sivord- 
 thrust never failed, and whose charge mowed 
 the enemy's ranks, like the scathings of an 
 earth-riven thunderbolt; there was the gallant 
 Knox, with his bluff, honest visage, every line 
 beaming good humor, and dignified by an ex- 
 
 pression of determined courage ; there was the 
 sagacious Greene, whose councils were as full 
 of wisdom as his sword was sure, and his 
 mind clear and self-possessed in the hour of 
 mortal conflict ; and there gathered around the 
 man upon whose shoulders heaven had placed 
 the destiny of his country, were the brave 
 men, who flocking from every hill and vale of 
 the continent, from foreign lands, from the mis- 
 rule of despotism in ejvery part of oppressed 
 Europe, from the hearth sides of their infancy, 
 and the homes of their manhood, and thronged 
 in one gallant band around the banner of free- 
 dom — there they stood with their good 
 swords that had tasted blood in many a battle 
 girded to their sides, with their noble visages 
 marked by scars, and darkened by the toil and 
 exposure of battle, and with hearts as true and 
 bold as ever beat in the bosom of the most 
 chivalric knight and daring warrior of the age 
 of gallant deeds and generous warfare. 
 
 And standing by the side of Washington, 
 was a young soldier, whose form was moulded 
 with all the symmetry of manly beauty, whose 
 cheek was yet warm with the bloom of early 
 youth, and whose piercing eye and high fore- 
 head, with its bold outline, indicative of the 
 highest order of mind, gave rich promise of the 
 mature man, whose words of burning eloquence, 
 were, in future years, to fall on the ears of his 
 countrymen, like the revelations of a seer. 
 
 Washington, ever and anon, would incline 
 his head to Lieutenant Colonel Hamilton, and 
 listen to the suggestions he offered, with an in- 
 terest of which older men might have been 
 proud, or invite his opinion with an eagerness 
 that showed how strong a hold the young sol- 
 dier had attained in the heart of his comman- 
 der. Little did the father of his country think 
 of the future fate of the aspiring soldier! Lit- 
 tle did he imagine that the youthful form by 
 his side, would survive the perils of war, to die 
 after the quietude of peace had succeeded to 
 the strife of battle, in an inglorious combat, the 
 fruit of a participation in the scenes of political 
 conflict. 
 
 The council lasted until an hour after mid- 
 night, when the plan of operations for the suc- 
 ceeding day being resolved upon, the various 
 officers retired to their different commands, to 
 snatch such hasty repose as the lateness of the 
 hour might allow, and to make such arrange- 
 
162 
 
 HERBERT TRACY, 
 
 ments for the comhig conflict as might tend to 
 ensure success to the American arms. 
 
 And under the broad canopy of heaven, un- 
 sheltered from the dews and damps of the night 
 air by covering or tent, slept the brave soldiers 
 of the American host, as soundly, as securely, 
 as though the coming morn was to bring 
 scenes of peace and quietness, instead of tur- 
 moil and bloodshed of battle. 
 
 As Herbert Tracy ^tood gazing upon the 
 scene around, from the elevation of the 
 Haunted House ; as his eye wandered from 
 the vast dome of the heavens above, hung with 
 a million stars, to the landscape, with its hills 
 covered with forests, its cultivated valleys, and 
 its level fields, along which were scattered the 
 masses of the Continental army, the thought of 
 the coming contest, and of the fearful effects it 
 might produce, flashed like a meteor-light 
 across his mind. 
 
 " How many a brave heart that now beats 
 warmly, will to-morrow night be cold and tor- 
 pid under the touch of death ! Many a noble 
 form will measure out the hasty grave of the 
 battle field — many an eye will be dimmed — 
 many a hand stiffened, and many an arm un- 
 nerved — but come success or come defeat, for 
 me will remain the same forbidding destiny, 
 over my head will lower the same dark cloud, 
 heavy with the lightnings of a father's curse !" 
 
 CHAPTER TENTH. 
 
 THB BATTLE MORN. 
 
 The morning of Saturday, the 4th of Octo- 
 ber. 1777, dawned slowly and heavily. 
 
 The sky was obscured by dimly defined 
 masses of clouds and mist, which overhung 
 the pathway of the sun, and extended, like 
 one vast shroud, along the dome of heaven, 
 enveloping hill, and plain, and stream, in the 
 density of their folds. 
 
 Objects were not discernible at more than 
 fifty paces, and, not unfiequently, the weary 
 eye of the soldier essayed in vain to define 
 the outline of marching troops, opposing 
 enclosures, brushwood or trees, not more than 
 twenty paces in front of his path. 
 
 As the first glimmering of dawn began to 
 steal over the landscape, the American army 
 resumed their march, unmarked by the roll of 
 drum or the peal of trumpet. 
 
 The only sound that disturbed the silence of 
 
 the atmosphere was the monotonous tread of 
 men and horses, shaking the earth, like the 
 low moaning of far off thunder. Ever and anon 
 the words of command, uttered in a suppressed 
 tone, passed along the line. These sounds, min-i 
 gled with the jar of clanking swords, the shrill 
 neigh of the mettled war-horse, and the thou- 
 sand half subdued noises that accompany the 
 movements of a large body of armed men, 
 were all the tokens that served to warn the 
 surrounding farmers and peasantry to flee from 
 the scene of the approaching conflict. 
 
 At the head of the central body, with Wayne 
 on one side and Sullivan on the other, rpde the 
 Man of the Army, his tall form seeming yet 
 more lofty, as it loomed through the mist, and 
 his face impressed with an expression of solemn 
 determination, as he gave to his various aids? 
 de-camp the orders of the daj', the directions 
 regulating the march, or as he imparted farther 
 instructions in relation to the attack and sur- 
 prise. 
 
 The deep and prolonged murmur and half- 
 suppressed bustle, that was heard to the right 
 and left of the central body, served to show 
 that the divisions of Greene and Stephen on 
 the left wing, and the militia of Maryland and 
 Jersey on the extreme left, as well as the 
 brigade of Pennsylvania on the extreme righ-t, 
 were defiling east and west, to take their re- 
 spective positions in the approaching strugale. 
 
 As the central division advanced in regular 
 order over the fields, and tlirough the woods, 
 that lay lietween the Haunted House and 
 Chestnut Hill, the .fog seemed to deepen, and 
 the light of day served only to render the 
 gloom more apparent, and objects aroun'd, more 
 vague and shadowy. 
 
 The Black Rangers were some two hundred 
 yards in advance, and a quarter of a mile to 
 the right of the main body, on the look out foi 
 the advanced parties of the enemy. They had 
 arrived within a mile of Chestnut Hill, and 
 were ascending a circular elevation, crowned 
 with a thick copse, when the quick ear of 
 Harry Heft first discerned the sounds of laugh- 
 ter, the clank of swords, and the pattering oi 
 horses' hoofs, on the opposite side of the hill, 
 beyond the woods. 
 
 " With your permission. Captain, I'll jis) 
 ride up to the lop 'o the hill and see whatlhf.ia 
 suspicious sounds might mean. ' 
 
OR THE LKGBND OP THE BLACK RANGERS. 
 
 163 
 
 " Do so, Lieutenant," replied Herbert. " It 
 strikes me that your eye will discover some 
 stray foraging party who have lost their way 
 in the fog. Just approach near enough to as- 
 certain their force and position — don't thrust 
 yourself heedlessly into danger." 
 
 " And sure, Capt'in," exclaimed Dennis, 
 "' might n't it be jest as well for meself to ride 
 to the opposite side of the hill, in a different 
 direction from that taken by the Leftenant, and 
 take a dacent peep at the Britishers — if Brit- 
 ishers they be?" 
 
 The Captain nodded assent, and while the 
 party halted, at some fifty paces from the copse 
 at the summit of the elevation, Harry Heft put 
 spurs to his horse, and galloped around the 
 eastern side of the ascent, while Dennis pur- 
 sued his way toward the western side. 
 
 Harry passed through the copse, and gained 
 the opposite brow of the hill, where, reining in 
 his steed, he tried to discover the nature of the 
 ground. Below him, for some twenty paces, 
 the hill sloped down in a gentle descent, and 
 was then lost in the obscurity of the fog, from 
 the bosom of which, far down in the valley, 
 came drunken shouts, mingling with snatches 
 of songs, and the sound of horses' hoofs. 
 
 " Let's see," soliloquized Harry, " where 
 am 1, and what's this place like ? Ah ! now I 
 have it — this hill slopes down into a small 
 valley, which it encircles in the shape of a new 
 moon — and now that 1 think of it, there is a 
 level outlet from it toward the south, opening 
 into a flat bottomed piece of swampy ground. 
 
 On all other sides it is circumvented by a 
 eerai-circular woods, and it strikes me, them 
 strangers, whoever they be, must be takin' a 
 iinXia right in the lap of the hollow. By the 
 Continental Congress, what's that ?" 
 
 The sound that attracted Harry's attention, 
 was the quick and sudden noise of horses' 
 hoofs, mingled with vindictive shouts, as though 
 their riders were in close pursuit of an enemy. 
 Nearer and nearer the sounds of pursuit drew, 
 and Harry was about to obey the impulse of 
 the moment and rush down into the valley, 
 when the jarring report of a pistol broke upon 
 the air, and the concussion lifted the fog for 
 some fifty paces below the spot where stood 
 the gallant Ranger. 
 
 As the mist slowly rose, like the upraising 
 of a vast curtain, Harry beheld a sight that 
 
 sent the blood, in one wild, warm current, to 
 his heart. 
 
 Quick as the lightning flash he beheld two 
 soldiers in the crimson uniform of British 
 troopers, mounted on stout, fleet horses, gal- 
 loping up the hill at the top of their speed, 
 their swords suspended in the air, and their 
 arms nerved to strike a wounded man, who 
 drooping to one side of his steed, essayed to es- 
 cape, while his noble horse made almost super- 
 natural efforts to bear his rider from the scene 
 of danger. 
 
 At the same instant that Harry saw the 
 wounded man and his pursuers, he beheld a 
 body of some dozen dragoonj galloping in the 
 rear ; while down the hill, in the centre of the 
 valley, the main force of the company (some 
 twenty troopers in all) were gathered around a 
 fire, in the act of springing upon their horses, 
 as if disturbed by some unexpected alarm. 
 
 Scarce had Lieutenant Heft time to gather 
 these particulars at a hurried glance, and ere he 
 could draw a bridle rein, or give his horse the 
 spur, he discovered that the wounded man was 
 none other than his companion Dennis, and at 
 the same moment his cry for quarter broke 
 upon the air ; but the uplifted swords of 
 the dragoons descended, winged with all the 
 force of their muscular arms, and the body of 
 the American Ranger was hurled to the earth, 
 while the riderless horse dashed by Harry 
 Heft with his neck arched, his eyes distended) 
 his mane flying, and the saddle on his back 
 smoking with his master's blood. 
 
 Raising his rifle to his eye, with his blood 
 boiling at the thought of the mercile&s carnage 
 which had taken place under his very eyes — 
 Harry Heft brought the barrel to bear upon the 
 foremost of the troopers, and, in a flash, a life- 
 less body fell from the war horse, and the green 
 sod bore upon its bosom the murderer and the 
 murdered — the dragoon in his scarlet attire 
 and gay trappings, and the free hearied Irish- 
 man in his uniform of black, changed to a 
 ghastly purple by the blood that poured in 
 gushing torrents from his heart. 
 
 The sharp crack of Harry's rifle had not 
 ceased to ring upon the air, when the war 
 shout of the Black Rangers swelled through th? 
 woods, and in an instant, dashing through the 
 copse, as one man, the brave " tiventy-four," 
 with Herbert at their head, followed Hurry 
 
1G4 
 
 HERT.KUT TRACY, 
 
 iown the hill at the lop of their horses' speed, 
 every man wilh his short, straight sword raised 
 in the air, adding vigor and volume to the yell 
 of Vengeance which arose from the band, as 
 5very eye beheld the bleeding form of Dennis 
 the Irishman. 
 
 Down the hill they came, their gallant steeds 
 moving with one impulse, as though they were 
 but limbs of the same vast animal. At the 
 sight, the twelve British Dragoons halted half 
 way up the hill, in the full sweep of their 
 career, and with horses recoiling on their 
 haunches, seemed scarce to know whether to 
 face the advancing avalanche, or to fly before 
 its approach. 
 
 Not an instant' had they for reflection, for 
 the Black Rangers came on toward them with 
 the speed of a thunderbolt and the voice of 
 Harry Heft was heard above all other sounds — 
 
 "Rangers — Dennis cried for quarter, and 
 they murdered him ! Shall we give them 
 quarter ?" 
 
 " No quarter," shouted Herbert Tracy, rais- 
 ing himself in his stirrups and measuring the 
 distance between his men and the twelve 
 dragoons, with a glance of his eye, " no 
 quarter ! The bullet and the sword for the 
 caitiffs. Over them. Rangers, over them!" 
 
 " No quarter l" echoed ihe Rangers, " no 
 quarter !" 
 
 " Dennis Mc Dermott !" shouted Harry. 
 
 " The trumpeter boy !" replied Sergeant 
 Brown. " Over them ! Down with the 
 caitiffs !" re-echoed the Rangers, with one 
 voice, " no quarter !" 
 
 And in one compact body, of four abreast, 
 with their steeds presenting a firm and un- 
 wavering front, the Black Rangers passed like 
 a whirlwind over the shrinking forms and re- 
 coiling horses of the twelve dragoons. 
 
 And as the Nighthawks swept on, with 
 their front unbroken and their ranks undis- 
 turbed, the British soldiers rolled on the earth, 
 some crushed beneath the weight of their 
 horses, others with their arms and legs broken 
 — and others pouring forth their lives on the 
 sod, from the mortal gash inflicted by the short 
 swords of the Rangers, in the very crisis of 
 their charge. All of them, man and steed, were 
 scattered upon the earth, an indiscriminate 
 mass of crushed bodies, of mangled horses and 
 dying men. 
 
 As the Rangers passed on in their career of 
 death, down the hill and toward the centre of 
 the valley, the main body of the British dra- 
 goons formed in solid phalanx in the level of 
 the vale, presenting a front of four abreast, with 
 a wood on either side of their position, and the 
 passage of the glen visible in their rear. 
 
 The fog had been raised from the bed of the 
 valley, by the action of the large fire which the 
 dragoons had kindled, and the light wreaths 
 of mist curled gracefully among the tree-tops 
 and around the hills, leaving the small level 
 plain perfectly clear from all obscurity, and 
 free from all exhalations. 
 
 CHAPTER ELEVENTH. 
 
 THE CHARGE. 
 
 The British Dragoons awaited the approach 
 of the Rangers with sword drawn, and steeds 
 firmly planted against each other, in a solid 
 parallelogram, and with the determination to 
 avenge their comrades, whom they could not 
 save, visible in each countenance, in the flash- 
 ing eye, the curling lip, and scowling brow. 
 
 The Americans came thundering on, and 
 twenty paces lay between them and their foes. 
 
 Another moment and they would join in 
 deadly contest, swords would fkish, and bullets 
 whistle, and their blood intermingle like streams 
 of water. 
 
 At this moment, when every breath was 
 hushed with intense expectation, the deep- 
 whispered word of command came from the 
 lips of Herbert Tracy, and with the celerity of 
 thought, his men divided from one another, like 
 drops of rain* from the bustling cloud, and in 
 an instant, the forms of twelve of their body 
 were concealed in the wood to the right of the 
 British soldiers, while the other twelve with 
 Tracy at their head, sought the cover of the 
 forest on the opposite side of the vale. 
 
 Each Ranger reined his steed up by the 
 trunk of some giant tree, and lifting his rifle to 
 his shoulder, brought its tube to bear upon the 
 head of a particular dragoon, or in common 
 parlance " picked his man ;" and as the British 
 soldiers turned to pursue their scattered foes, 
 a stunning report broke from the woods on 
 either side, and of the twenty-three rifle balls, 
 nineteen proved faithful to the aim, and as 
 
11 
 
 (165) 
 
on THE LEGK'ND OF THK DL VCK RAXOERa. 
 
 IGT 
 
 many steeds were without riders, while the 
 ground was strewed witli the British dead. 
 
 Herbert, too, had raised his rifle, and selected 
 for his mark, the breast of the commander of 
 the party, the barrel was levelled, his finger on 
 the trigger, but at that instant the officer in 
 issuing some hurried command to his men, 
 turned his face toward Captain Tracy, and the 
 arm of the Partizan Leader dropped nerveless 
 by his side. 
 
 He beheld the face of Lieu.tenant Wellwood 
 Tracy, and he could not kill him. 
 
 Lieutenant Wellwood Tracy, his antagonist 
 in love, in honor, in the affections of his 
 father ; the man who made no scruple of 
 usurping every right belofnging to him by the 
 decree of God and nature, was before him, in 
 the line of his rifle, and yet he could not fiire. 
 
 The British Lieutenant looked confusedly 
 round the dead and the dying about him. 
 
 Ere he could attempt an escape, he was 
 surrounded by the two divisions of the Rangers, 
 uniting from either side of the vale, with the 
 tall form of Herbert Arnheim Tracy towering 
 in the midst. 
 
 " Dennis Mc Dermott !" shouted Harry Heft, 
 whose blood was turned to gall, in his stern 
 determination to avenge the Irishman — 
 "Down with the Britisher ! No quarter !" 
 
 " The trumpeter boy !" cried Sergeant 
 Brown — " No quarter !" 
 
 " No quarter !'' re-echoed the Rangers, and 
 twenty-three swords were unsheathed over the 
 head of Wellwood Tracy. 
 
 The British Lieutenant glanced hurriedly 
 around, and seemed endeavoring to recover his 
 self-possession, when Herbert Tracy threw his 
 horse between the Rangers and the object of 
 their anticipated vengeance. 
 
 " Rangers, I beg this man's life of ye V he 
 exclaimed — " He must not, shall not be slain ! 
 Lieutenant Tracy, you are my prisoner." 
 
 " So I perceive," observed the Lieutenant, 
 with a ghastly attempt at humor. " But a 
 mom..nt since, you might have been indebted 
 to thfcse gentlemen for ridding you of the care 
 of a prisoner, in the most expeditious, if not 
 the most honorable way. You might, by — !" 
 
 " It is ill jesting with men whose swords are 
 whetted for blood, by the sight of a murdered 
 comrade," replied Herbert, placing himself at 
 the head of his men, and galloping toward the 
 
 spot, where Dennis McDermott had been 
 murdered, " look to your prisoner Sergean 
 Brown." 
 
 The Rangers arrived on the spot half waj 
 up the hill, where lay the dying Ranger — 
 for life had not yet altogether departed from 
 his manly frame. 
 
 He was terribly gashed ; a deep sword 
 wound laid open the scalp of his head, and his 
 shoulder blade was broken, by a downward 
 blow that had evidently been inflicted by no 
 weak arm. A stream of blood flowed without 
 intermission from a bullet wound near his heart 
 and the crim-^on current had flooded the sod 
 on which he lay, and was now tricklmg down 
 the hill. 
 
 " Dennis, my hoy," said Harry, kneeling 
 beside the wounded m:in, " look up, Dennis, 
 my boy ! We puid the scoundrels for their 
 treachery — we did ! For every drop of your 
 blood, a bucket-full of the British puddle has 
 been spilt. Look up, Dennis, my boy !" 
 
 The dying man passed his hand over his 
 eyes, and wiped away the blood, which 
 streametl from his gashed forehead, and ob- 
 scured his vision. 
 
 " Ye paid 'em did ye ?" he exclaimed, 
 faintly, as Harry supported his head. 
 
 " Aye, did we. Thirty of the red coats 
 have bitten the dust." 
 
 " Thirty, did ye say ? be jabers, Harry — 
 ochone ! The wife and the childer be the 
 Lake — the Lake of Kill — Kill — Och ! I'm 
 kilt meself. Will ye not wipe the blood out 
 o' m}' eyes, Harry Heft — I'd like to see — 
 to see — sure the sun's going dovvn, Harry 
 Heft, and its getting dark — It's a lone world 
 I'm going to, Harry Heft, and niver a priest 
 to show me the way. Remlmber me, Harry 
 — masses for me sowl — Och ! but it's dark !" 
 And with a rattling sound in the throat, like 
 suffocation, the brave Ranger made a desperate 
 struggle, as though he were wrestling with an 
 invisible foe, and then, with a faint attempt to 
 clear the blood away from his eyes, he sunk 
 into the arms of Harry Heft, and ceased to 
 live. 
 
 Large, burning tears streamed down the 
 bluff Ranger's cheeks, as he gazed at the life- 
 less corse. 
 
 " If I don't make 'em pay for this," he 
 muttered, and paused for a moment — and then 
 
168 
 
 nERBKIlT TUACT, 
 
 idde ! in a lower tone — " it's no matter ; that's 
 ill." 
 
 " Comrades !" exclaimed Sergeant Brown, 
 " we'll have to shout two watchwords in the 
 field to-day. ' This for the trumpeter boy' for 
 ever shot we fire, and ' that for Dennis Mc- 
 Dermolt' for every sword cut we make." 
 
 A deep murmur of assent arose from the 
 Rangers, who, with their Captain, gathered 
 round the corse of the murdered man. 
 
 " I am really sorry," exclaimed Lieutenant 
 Wellwood Tracy advancing, " that my drunken 
 troopers, by such a barbarous act, should h^ve 
 provoked such a sanguinary massacre of ray 
 yhole command — I am sorry, by !" 
 
 " Lieutenant Tracy," interrupted Herbert, 
 " if you are wining to give me your parole of 
 honor, not to bear arms ag^iinst the American 
 forces until you are properly exchanged, I will 
 accept it, and you may depart at your own 
 pleasure." 
 
 The Lieutenant seemed not very well pleased 
 at this sudden interruption ; however he gave 
 his parole of honor, mounted his horse, and 
 galloped toward the British lines. 
 
 Callous and cold-hearted as was Lieutenant, 
 Tr.acy, it was not without some feelings of 
 emotion, that he looked back, from the passage 
 of the vale, to the scene of the late skirmish, 
 and marked in place of the lusty soldiers who 
 had accompanied him thither, the mangled 
 forms of the dying and the dead strown over 
 the sod, which was crimsoned with their 
 blood. 
 
 " Mount, Rangers, and away !" shouted 
 Herbert. "Hark! They are in action at Chest 
 nut Hill ! Mount, and away !" 
 
 "Captain Tracy," exclaimed a voice from 
 among the heap of wounded and dying, " for 
 a cup of water, I can tell ye a tale that it might 
 like ye to hear. Miss Walthan* — " 
 
 " Miss Waltham ? What of her ?" 
 
 "The water first — the water — " mur- 
 mured the wounded man. 
 
 The water was brought from a brooklet, 
 that ran down the side of the hill, and having 
 drained the canteen to the last drop, the trooper 
 proceeded with his story. 
 
 He proved to be the drunken soldier who 
 had come in contact with Harry at the Quaker's 
 house, where he had been suffered to rest 
 vnJer the table until late at night. By some 
 
 means or other, he became aware that Miss 
 Waltham was in the farm House. Wandering 
 along the fields, he fell in with his master, the 
 Lieutenant, who was just returning to camp 
 after the fruitless search for his bride. He 
 presently became aware of Miss Waltham's 
 hiding place, and with Col. Musgrave pro- 
 ceeded to the farm house — informed the young 
 lady that they felt bound to escort her across 
 the country, to the mansion of a friend, where 
 the Colonel was quartered, and where she 
 could remain, until the pleasure of her father 
 might be known. Miss Waltham begged to be 
 taken to her father's house, but that was impos- 
 sible, the Colonel said; they were bound to 
 hurry across the country and be with tlieir 
 commands by daybreak ; and the only way 
 left them to manifest their interest in her safety, 
 and protect her from the violence of a rebel 
 leader, (they affected to treat Herbert as an 
 entire stranger) was to request her attendance, 
 to the mansion of a common friend. Glad, at 
 all events, to have escaped the hated marriage, 
 Miss Waltham, yielded her consent, to what 
 she could not well refuse, and accompanied 
 the Colonel and Lieutenant to the mansion 
 which they designated. 
 
 " Well, my wounded terror of turkies," 
 exclaimed Harry, when the trooper had pro- 
 ceeded thus far, " had I known last night that 
 you had been up to cuttin' sich deviltries, I'd 
 put a stopper on you, mighty quick. I say, 
 Captain, these red coats are swelling their 
 account — it 'ill be full a'ter a while." 
 
 " Mount, Rangers, mount, and away !" 
 shouted Herbert, who had mused deeply on 
 the trooper's story — "we will have warm 
 work to-day, by that firing yonder. Away, 
 Nighihawks ?" 
 
 CHAPTER TWELFTH. 
 
 THE ATTACK THE CHASE THE HAVOC. 
 
 "Look!" shouted Herbert Tracy, as he 
 halted his steed for an instant on the brow of 
 a hill, within pistol-shot of the Germantown 
 Road, below Mount Airy. "Look ye, my 
 Rangers, how the Loyalists flee I See how 
 the Continentals sweep all before them — 
 there's Mad Anthony — I'd swear to the 
 stroke of his sword — and there's Pulaski — 
 there's Washington in the very centre of th'« 
 
OR THE LEGEND OF THE BI,ACK UAKREES. 
 
 1G9 
 
 fnefee. A blow for Washington, Rangers ! 
 Wlioop and away !" 
 
 With an answering shout, the Rangers 
 dashed down the hill, and swept across the 
 plain, toward the Germantown Road. 
 
 While Herbert Tracy was engaged with 
 the troop of I.ientenant Wellwood, a mile 
 westward of Chestnut Hill, the central body 
 of the American troops, under Wayne and 
 Sullivan, with Washington at their head, had 
 reached Mount Airy, surprised a battalion of 
 light infantry, lodged in Allen's house in that 
 vicinity, and bv a bold and determined move- 
 ment, drove the enemy before them at pleasure, 
 following up the work with all the flush and 
 heat of an unexpected triumph. Scattering 
 their arms along the way, or ever and anon 
 turning to face their pursuers, the remains of 
 the battalion of light infantry proved the apt- 
 ness of their name, and, in the course of fifteen 
 minutes, fled precipitately down the German- 
 town Road, for the distance of three-quarters 
 of a mile, until they reached the point where 
 the 40th Regiment was stationed, under the 
 command of Col. Musgrave. 
 
 Here the attack was renewed with all its 
 vigor, and the American soldiers pressed for- 
 ward as one man, and engaged with the British, 
 muzzle to muzzle. Col. Musgrave was seen 
 hurrying hither and thither along the lines, 
 and the form of a tall, dark-browed man, in 
 the dress of a private citizen, with a star of 
 honor on his left breast, was ever at his 
 shoulder, aiding him in his attempts to restore 
 confidence to his men, and riding in the very 
 thickest of the fight. 
 
 But it was in vain. 
 
 In vain did the British infantry plant their 
 muskets in the sod, and, sinking on one knee, 
 ipresent to the advancing Americans a wall of 
 bristling bayonets. 
 
 The charge of Wayne came ttiundering on, 
 and his loud war-cry — "Upon them! over 
 them !" rose above the din of battle. In vain 
 did the British dragoons form in one solid 
 front, and with upraised sword, sweep on to 
 meet the American infantry. They were 
 received mid-way by the fire of the back- 
 woodsmen, each rifle marking its man ; and 
 each shot told as surely and effectually as 
 though it was aimed at an inanimate rather 
 than a living mark. 
 
 The confusion of the scene increased with 
 each moment. Vast clouds of thick smoke 
 began to roll in heavy folds over the field ot 
 contest, and from its bosom flashed the glare of 
 musquetry, and the blaze of the rifle, while 
 the clash of intermingling swords, the shouts of 
 the combatants, the yells of the dying, the 
 shrieks of the wounded, swelled upward to the 
 Heaven, in one fearful chorus. A chorus more 
 terrible to hear, than the roar of the earthquake 
 oellowing through the caverns of the earth, or 
 the yell of the storm, bursting in thunder clans 
 around the summit of Cliimborazo. 
 
 These sounds strike us with preternatural 
 fear and awe, but the confusion of a bat- 
 tle-field not only thrills us with a feeling of 
 indefinable awe. but awakens our sympathies 
 almost to madness. In every shout, a man 
 formed like ourselves bites the dust, in every 
 groan the earlh is crimsoned with the life cur- 
 rent of the wounded, in every peal of mus- 
 quetry a score of souls wing their way from all 
 the flush of life and vigor of early manhood, 
 up to that unseen and spiritual world which 
 is invested with the brightest hopes and darkest 
 terrors of the human mind. 
 
 At this crisis of the contest. Captain Tracy, 
 at the head of his Rangers, came rushing on 
 to join the tide of conflict. Every man willi 
 his head erect, his sword drawn, and his night- 
 hawk plume fluttering in the wind swelled the 
 shout of vengeance, they poured upon the 
 British host. As each rifle winged its bullet, 
 — as each sword sought its living si;eath, the 
 war cry of the Rangers rose high above all 
 other sounds — "This for Dennis McDer- 
 mott !" " This for the trumpeter boy !" 
 
 " It is in vain !" cried Colonel Musgrave to 
 the gentleman in citizen's dress who stood at 
 his side — " Major Tracy we must beat a rf- 
 treat ! The rebels fight like incarnate devils ! 
 Away — away to the main body — away to- 
 ward Chew's house I" 
 
 As the order was passed along the British 
 line, the Americans followed up the attack 
 with increased zeal, and the scene became 
 one of deadly chase and precipitate pursuit on 
 the Continental side, and of hurried rout and 
 confused retreat on the part of his Majesty's 
 40th regiment. 
 
 In utter confusion, and heedless of all sys- 
 tem or regularity of march, the British soldier.s 
 
no 
 
 HKUnEBT TRACY, 
 
 fled along the Germantown road, toward the 
 main line, at the distance of three-quarters of a 
 mile. 
 
 " Now, Wayne, now !" shouted Washing- 
 ton, as he rode in the van of the chase — 
 " Follow up the blow and we have them !" 
 
 " See ! how they fly '.'' exclaimed Herbert 
 with an outburst of the wild excitement of the 
 scene, "On Rangers, on ! This for Dennis 
 McDermott ! Over them, Rangers, over them ! 
 This for the trumpeter boy !" 
 
 "This ior Dennis McDermott!" shouted 
 Harry Heft at each stroke. 
 
 " This for the trumpeter boy ! This for 
 Dennis McDermott!" re-echoed the Rangers, 
 as they rode over the retreating enemy, and 
 scattered panic and confusion among the Brit- 
 ish by their singular appearance, their uniform 
 of sable, their short sword, which they used 
 with a celerity and expedition that defied all 
 the tactics of the European soldiers, and their 
 rifle that uttered its volume of flame every 
 instant, while their jet black horses swept on 
 with the speed of wind. 
 
 Meanwhile, far on the American left, to the 
 westward of Chew's house, Greene engages 
 with the enemy's right, and the militia of 
 Maryland and Jersey attack his rear, at the 
 same time that the Pennsylvania troops pour 
 down the Ridge Road, and throw their force 
 upon the left of the British wing. 
 
 The sounds of battle disturbed the quiet 
 shades of Wissahikon, and resounded over the 
 fields, along the village, to the hills on the 
 east. Every movement of the combatants 
 tended to make Germantown the centre of the 
 contest. 
 
 The fog which had been raised for a moment 
 at sunrise, again descended upon the landscape, 
 and involved the scene of strife in mist and 
 darkness that gave additional horror to the 
 fight. As the divisions of Wayne and Sulli- 
 van swept along the Germantown Road in the 
 pursuit of the enemy's 40th regiment, the 
 conflict, to the British left, began to deepen, 
 and the smoke of battle rolled over the farm 
 house of the Friend Joab Smiley, who stood 
 gazing from a window upon the scene of strife 
 and bloodshed. 
 
 Dame Smiley sat in one corner of the 
 apartment with her face buried in her hands, 
 to veil her eyes from the vivid flashes of the 
 
 cannon, which like lightning ever and anon 
 streamed through the windows. 
 
 Her daughter, the fair Marjorie, with her 
 dark hair all dishevelled, and her hands 
 clasped in silent prayer, buried her face in 
 her mother's bosom, in a half-kneeling, half- 
 reclining position, while her bosom heaved 
 upward from its scanty covering, and sobs 
 and sighs of undefinable terror convulsed her 
 slender form. 
 
 Near the mother and daughter, with his 
 large eyes fixed upon his massive, paw-like 
 hands, which were laid upon his knees, sat 
 the negro, " Charles the First," whose wan- 
 derings across the country, on his way to 
 Major Tracy's mansion had been suddenly 
 terminated by the conflict of the opposing 
 armies. He had been forced to seek shelter 
 in the farm house of the Quaker. 
 
 Apart from all the others, looking from the 
 northern window of the apartment, stood the 
 Quaker farmer, his muscular form raised to its 
 full height, his head erect, and his stout arms 
 folded upon his prominent chest, as he gazed 
 sternly upon the scene of conflict. 
 
 The surrounding hills and woods were 
 enveloped in the thick fog which enshrouded 
 the entire face of the country, yet still the 
 Quaker could perceive the forms of men min 
 gling in deadly conflict, and the red glare of 
 the cannon would for an instant lift the curtain 
 of mist, and the scene of death was laid bare 
 to his view. 
 
 "There — there — is the flag of the Con- 
 tinentals," he exclaimed — ■' Now it is down- 
 there sails the cross — the blood red cross dt 
 the British men. Verily, it is terrible to see 
 so much strife and bloodshed. Now the 
 Americans march up the hill — there go their 
 war horses — now they are driven back — 
 Ha! — Verily I" 
 
 The Quaker drew a long breath, and stifled 
 the exclamation that was about to issue from 
 his lips. 
 
 " I am a strong man," muttered the farmer, 
 " and I stand and look on while my neighbors 
 are murdered. Verily, Hannah, I will even 
 go forth to the field — I will go forth to the 
 field, Hannah — Ha! Verily!" 
 
 " Surely, Joab" — exclaimed his wife, start- 
 ing on her feet — "thee will not so far forget 
 thee God, and thee brethren, as to mingle 
 
OR THE LKGBiJD OP THE BLACK KANGEIIS. 
 
 in 
 
 the strife of battle? Joab — Joab — I cannot 
 think thus hardly of thee !" 
 
 "Father! father!" — shrieked Marjorie — 
 " thee will not peril thy life among the men 
 of war — father, go not forth" — 
 
 The maiden's utterance was choked by 
 sobs, and she fell weeping upon her mother's 
 shoulder. 
 
 "Ha! verily! I will go forth — alone — 
 there may be wounded who cry in vain for the 
 cup of water — the maiden Waltham may be 
 in danger. Harry Heft may be dying, and I 
 standing here like a block of stone, looking 
 calmly on. I must go forth to the field, wife — 
 kold me not, daughter. I must forth — I'll 
 be with ye presen^y" — 
 
 " Sure's my name's Chawls de Fust" — 
 exclaimed the negro, rising from his deep 
 cogitations, " I'll go to Massa Chew's house, 
 too. Miss Waltham may be dar alone, and 
 de debble to pay. De Britishers may shoot 
 me — I hab but one life — Massa Smiley, I 
 go wid you. Dat am a fac." 
 
 " Charles, thee is a good fellow. Come 
 with roe, if thy heart fails thee not. Nay, 
 wife, I must go forth to the field !" 
 
 The Quaker and the negro servant issued 
 from the farm house door, and took their way 
 to the field of contest, and while the mother 
 and daughter gazed from the window, they 
 disappeared in the folds of the surrounding 
 fog. 
 
 CHAPTER THIRTEENTH. 
 
 chew's house. 
 
 " There is but one hope for us !" shouted 
 . Colonel Musgrave, as his regiment rushed in 
 full retreat toward the British line. "One 
 hope. Major Tracy ! If that fails, our forces 
 will be defeated — Philadelphia re-taken — 
 and the rebel cause triumphant ! We must 
 make a fortress of Chew's House — yonder 
 mansion of stone — its walls are in some 
 planes three feet thick, and we can hold the 
 place for hours ! Away to Chew's House !" 
 Major Tracy, by his words and example, 
 encouraged the scattering regiment to press on- 
 ward toward the mansion which stood re- 
 tired from the road at the distance of near two 
 ■ hundred yards. It was, and is, a substantial 
 edifice, built of massive stone, which will re- 
 
 sist the tooth of time for ages. It stands 
 facing the road, with two wings of stone sup- 
 posting it in the rear, and toward the north — 
 at the time of the Romance — the edifice pre- 
 sented a plain side of stone, only varied by two 
 deep-silled windows, which gave light to that 
 part of the mansion, one in the first and the 
 other in the second story. The roof descends 
 with a gentle slope, and the eves are defended 
 by massive cornices, which give an appearance 
 of solidiiy and strength to the building* 
 
 In front of Chew's mansion, on the battle 
 moivn, lay a wide lawn, reaching ov«f twohun 
 dred yards to the main road of the village, ex- 
 tending south the same distance, and spreading 
 toward the north, in an open field, of some four 
 hundred in yards extent. 
 
 This lawn was defended along the road by 
 a wall of stone, and a few trees were scattered 
 here and there over ils surface, while an enclo- 
 sure of sheds and fences, for confining cattle, 
 was pitched some fifty yards to the north of 
 the mansion, in direct view o( the northern 
 windows. 
 
 in the north wiidow of the second floor of 
 the mansion, Marian Waltham sat gazing 
 through the gloom and obscurity of the mist, 
 upon the lawn that encircled the edifice. 
 
 Her fair bosom trembled with indefinable 
 terror as she listened to the increasing tumult of 
 battle, with her head inclined to one side, her 
 blue eyes brightening with interest, and hei 
 lips parted with intense anxiety. 
 
 This terror the kind offices of the house- 
 keeper of the mansion, whose portly form was 
 seated at her side, in vain endeavored to dispel 
 or assuage. 
 
 " La ! Miss Waltham, what's the use of 
 taking on so !" exclaimed the housekeeper, 
 giving the keys at her side an important rattle. 
 " As sure as my name's Betty Fisher, and as 
 sure as Mr. Cliew's family are at Philidelphy, 
 leaving me to lake care of this place, as sure as 
 I've had to pervide for Col. Musgrave, and all 
 his rampaging red-coats, jist so sure will you 
 be as safe here, as though you were in your 
 own father's parlor, over on the Ridge Road. 
 " And so a rascally rebel run off with you — 
 did he? The ragamufiin! Jist as you were 
 a-goin' 10 b'; married, too ? How unpolite — " 
 
 Miss Betty Fisher's round and rubicund 
 face assumed an expression of intense curiosity 
 
172 
 
 HERItEIVC TUACY, 
 
 and her voluminous figure moved closer to 
 Miss Waltham's side. 
 
 " How kind in Col.Musgrave to rescue you 
 from the rebel's clutches ! I b'lieve my heart 
 that old Quaker waa at the bottom of it all — 
 I do! Jist to think — goodness grashus ! 
 What's that — coming from the fog — oh! 
 Lud !" 
 
 Miss Waltham gazed with a hurried gesture 
 from the window, at the exclamation of the 
 housekeeper, and beheld, rushing from the 
 depths of the fog — which concealed all ob- 
 jects beyond thirty paces — a confused band of 
 British soldiers, some mounted, others on foot, 
 who ran with shouts and imprecations tow- 
 ards the hall door which opened on the lawn. 
 The soldiers continued to pour along the 
 lawn in the same irregular stream, regardless 
 of discipline or order ; some of their number 
 were covered with blood ; others had their 
 uniform soiled and torn ; others were destitute 
 of arms, and the entire body presented all the 
 appearances that accompany defeat and dis- 
 may. 
 
 " There's Col. Musgrave !" screamed Betty 
 Fisher, " and there's Major Tracy all covered 
 with dust and blood, among the rampaging 
 troopers ! Oh ! Lud ! here's a purty how d'ye 
 ,(Jo — and in Mr. Chew's house, too ! Good- 
 ness grashus !' 
 
 Ere Marian had time to wonder at the ap- 
 pearance of Major Tracy and Col. Musgrave. 
 in the plight in which she saw them, the room 
 in which she was seated was filled with Brit- 
 ish soldiers, and Miss Betty Fisher hurried her 
 fair charge away, to an obscure corner of the 
 -mansion. 
 
 While the preparations for an obstinate de- 
 fence were progressing in every part of the 
 mansion; the American troops, in pursuit of 
 the flying enemy, arrived in full chase, along 
 the Germantown Road, in front of the field in 
 which the edifice was situated. 
 
 Herbert Tracy, with his men, placed to- 
 gether with the Partizan Legion of the brave 
 Lee, near the person of the Commander-in- 
 Chief, swept on in the very van of the pur- 
 suit. When the American forces were called 
 to a sudden halt, in front of the mansion, so 
 thick were the clouds of dust, and the stnoke 
 of battle that rolled over their heads, and so 
 
 dense was the fog that enveloped their line of 
 march, that when the young captain gazed 
 around him, all objects beyond the vicinity of 
 his own men, were wrapt in obscurity. 
 
 The stately form of Washington, surrounded 
 by his staff, was visible, however, amid mist 
 and gloom, as an aid-de-camp came galloping 
 up, and gave information of the lodgement of 
 Col. Musgrave with six companies of infantry 
 in Chew's mansion. 
 
 " Shall we press onward," exclaimed Wash- 
 ington turning to the brave men around him, 
 " in pursuit of the main body of the enemy 
 who are flying before us, or shall we halt and 
 dislodge the party of Col. Musgrave, who have 
 thrown themselves into the mansion ?" 
 
 " Halt ! by all means," cried General Knox, 
 " it is against every rule of warfare to leave a 
 fortress, possessed by an enemy, in the rear." 
 " What !" exclaimed Col. Pickering, "shall 
 we call this a fort, and lose the very moment 
 of success 2" 
 
 "Let us press onward!" cried Wayne, 
 who at that moment rode up to the side of 
 Washington, his sword dripping with blood. 
 " Let us press onward ! Onward antl follow 
 up the rout of the enemy, while our troops are 
 flushed with success ! Onward, and with 
 another blow the day is ours !" 
 
 " Onward !" exclaimed Lieutenant Colonel 
 Hamilton, "This is the very crisis of the ac- 
 tion. While we attack the house, the enemy 
 will rally, and we shall see the laurel of victory 
 plucked from our brows in the very moment 
 of triumph !" 
 
 " Onward, and over them !" cried Captain 
 Tracy. " Now the day is our own — : in ten 
 minutes we may flee from the very field of 
 victory with the British pressing on in our 
 rear !" 
 
 The cry was echoed by all the junior mem- 
 bers of the staff, but their opinion was over- 
 ruled by that of the veteran Knox, who, sup- 
 ported by other senior officers, advised an im- 
 mediate attack upon the house. 
 
 The roar of a steady fire of musquetry pour- 
 ing from every window, from every nook and 
 cranny of Chew's House, now came rolling 
 through the fog, and scattered death and confu- 
 sion through the American troops, who rushed 
 into the very jaws of the enemy's artillery. 
 
a 
 i> 
 
 w 
 
 H 
 
 s 
 
 M 
 O 
 
 (173) 
 
OU THE LEGEND OF TDK BLACK RANGEnS. 
 
 175 
 
 Chew's House became the centre of the 
 fiercely contested fight. 
 
 Greene's cokiran to the east were engaged 
 hand to hand with the enemy in that quarter ; 
 Armstrong was thundering away into the ranks 
 of the foe westward of the house, and every 
 moment decreased the distance between the va- 
 rious wings of the opposing armies and the 
 centre of the battle. 
 
 The American artillery was arrayed on the 
 opposite side of the Germantown Road, at the 
 distance of two hundred yards from the house, 
 wilh the cannon so arrayed, that the balls 
 struck the north-west corner of the mansion. 
 The thunder of the cannon opened full on the 
 liouse, but the aim of the gunners was rendered 
 uncertain by the pressure of the fog. The 
 American infantry were about to advance and 
 attempt to carry the temporary fortress by 
 storm, when it was determined to send a flag of 
 truce and summon Col. Musgrave to surren- 
 der. 
 
 A young and gallant oflScer, of Lee's Parti- 
 zan Legion, was selected from among the 
 throng who offered to bear the flag. 
 
 Assuming the snow-white emblem of peace, 
 held sacred by all nations, the brave soldier ap- 
 proached the house, and was within twenty 
 paces of the hall door, when a blaze issued 
 from a window, and the young offieer mea- 
 sured his grave upon the sod, while the flag of 
 truce was stained with the warm blood of his 
 heart. 
 
 A yell of horror broke from the American 
 army at this ghasd)' spectacle, and the attack 
 upon the house was renewed with a keen de- 
 sire on the part of each soldier to avenge the 
 young officer, and as each column marched 
 up to the mansion, the name of the murdered 
 man acrompanied each peal of musquetry and 
 swelled high above the thunder of the cannon. 
 
 The plan of the attack on Chew's house 
 forced nearly one-half of the central body to 
 stand by and witness the slaughter of their com- 
 rades before their very eyes, withoutbeing able 
 to raise a hand in their defence. 
 
 Taking advantage of this inactivity. General 
 Groy wheeled the front of the left wing of the 
 British army from his position east of German- 
 town, into the centre of the fight, and sup- 
 ported by the fourth brigade under General 
 Agnew, opposed a successful and terrible re- 
 
 sistance to the success of the American arms. 
 The fii-e of the British musquetry, enveloping 
 the field in one continual sheet of flame, was 
 answered by the American fire flashing like 
 forked lightning at quick intervals, and from 
 the depths of the fog, arose the sound of host 
 charging against host, the roar of the cannon, 
 the cries, the shrieks, the groans of the 
 v/ounded and dying, mingling with the voices 
 of the different commanders, urging their men 
 on to their various posts in the scene of con 
 flict, but amid all the wild uproar of the batde, 
 the deep murmured shouts of the Black 
 Rangers broke upon the air, and their sable 
 uniform gleamed through the white wreaths of 
 smoke, as they thundered along the field in the 
 thickest of the fight, accompanying the deadly 
 fire with the war cry, " This for Dennis Mc- 
 Dermott !" and each mortal stroke of the short, 
 straight sword, with the shout — " This for the 
 trumpeter boy !" 
 
 Like a dark thunder cloud, emitting fire and 
 flame from every point, the Rangers swept 
 through the foe in one firm phalanx, making a 
 lane of dead wherever they passed, and leaving 
 the wounded and the dying scattered in heaps 
 in their rear. 
 
 The Americans fought every man of them, 
 as though the issue of the fight depended upon 
 his separate hand and blow ; they fought 
 galljfntly ; they fought undismayed by the 
 heaps of dead which piled each step of ground 
 on which they trod ; but they fought against 
 hope. The thick and gloomy mist still hung 
 over the field like a shroud for their dead, and 
 with its evil omen blasted every prospect of 
 success. 
 
 The fog threw the Americans on the left into 
 inextricable confusion, and they turned their 
 arms against each other. Many a brave Con- 
 tinental soldier, leveled his musket, through the 
 mist, at what he supposed a foe, and found 
 himself the murderer of a friend. 
 
 The brave Col. Matthews, of Green's for 
 midable column, passed to the east of Chew's 
 house, and drove the British before him with 
 the force of a tornado ; on every side they 
 fled before the terror of his arms ; and his 
 regiment was sooji swelled by the addition of 
 three hundred prisoners. Returning, to the 
 main body in the heat and glow of triumph, 
 he fell in with a body of friends — as he 
 
176 
 
 nsnnEiiT THAcr, 
 
 thought — and found himself a prisoner in the 
 heart of the British army. 
 
 Herbert Tracy and his Rangers came 
 galloping up to the side of Washington in the 
 thickest of the fight, prepared for any effort 
 that might retrieve the fatal mistake of the 
 halt at Chew's house. 
 
 Never had Herbert seen the Commander-in- 
 Chief moved by such deep and powerful 
 emotion as stirred through every fibre of his 
 commanding frame when, moment after mo- 
 ment, he received the reports of disaster and 
 partial defeat, from his aids-de-camp, who were 
 hastening, some from Armstrong's brigades^ 
 some from the commands of Generals 
 Smallwood and Forman, others from the 
 column of Greene, and all bearing testimony 
 of the fatal effects of the want of co-operation 
 and consolidation caused by the halt at Chew's 
 house. 
 
 Washington glanced around upon the scene 
 of confusion and death. 
 
 His face, usually so calm and mild in its 
 aspect, was moved in every lineament by an 
 expression stern as it was strange to those 
 features so full of manly wisdom and dignity. 
 His eye flashed, and his eye gathered a frown, 
 such as h;id never before marked his counte- 
 nance; his lips were compressed, and his tall 
 figure, raised to its full height as with the en- 
 ergy of defiance and despair, an utter reckless- 
 ness of self preservation appeared to possess 
 him in that moment of agony, when he saw 
 defeat hovering over the American arms. 
 
 " Follow me, who lists," he exclaimed' 
 putting spurs to his steed — " We may even 
 yet discover some vulnerable point around the 
 fatal house." 
 
 He rode directly in to the fire of the enemy, 
 toward the northern wall of Chew's mansion, 
 and in his train, fired by a generous emulation 
 to share the danger of the noble man, rode the 
 gallant Hamilton, the brave Pickering, and the 
 daring Lee, side by side with Herbert Tracy, 
 who surrendered his men, for the time, to the 
 command of Harry Heft, and rushed on with 
 Washington and his staff into the very jaws of 
 the British cannon. 
 
 Ere they were aware, the party found them- 
 selves riding within twenty paces of the north- 
 ern wall of the mansion, with a deadly and 
 incessant fire of musquetry pouring from the 
 
 upper window, and the bullets from the oppos- 
 ing armies sweeping by iheir heads like hail, 
 while the sod at their horses' feet was furrowed 
 by cannon balls. 
 
 The danger was imminent, and nothing but 
 interposition of a Higher Power could have 
 saved the life of Washington in that dread 
 moment. 
 
 The officers of his staff with one voice be. 
 sought him to return, but unheeding their ex- 
 clamations, Washington rode directly along 
 the northern wall of the mansion, and noted 
 that the shutters of the lower window were 
 closed, and that it was barricaded half way 
 up by heaps of loose timber and brushwood, 
 while the muzzles of the British guns poured 
 an incessant shower of balls through loop- 
 holes cut into the shutters. 
 
 Having noted these facts,* the Commander- 
 in-Chief turned his horse to the American 
 lines, and, followed by his. gallant band, rode 
 forward, exposed to the fire of the contending 
 armies, when, mistaking their way in the fog, 
 ihey presently found themselves entangled 
 amid the sheds and enclosures of the cattle- 
 pen, fity paces from the mansion, with bullets 
 peeling splinters from the timbers every in- 
 stant, and cannon balls scattering dust and sand 
 into their faces as they struck the earth on 
 every side 
 
 " Save yourselves, gentlemen !" shouted 
 Washington, and every member of the staff 
 leaped his horse over the enclosure of boards, 
 some three feet in height, and galloped north- 
 ward toward the American lines, expecting 
 Wasliington and Herbert Tracy to follow their 
 example. 
 
 " Leap, Captain Tracy, leap your horse and 
 save yourself!" shouted Washington, as a bul- 
 let lodged in the pommell of his saddle. 
 
 " Not till you are safe!" replied Tracy, 
 facing the storm of battle with as much calm- 
 ness and self-possession as though he were 
 but breasting the career of a summer showei. 
 
 " I cannot endanger the limbs of this noble 
 horse by leaping yon fence," exclaimed Wash- 
 ington. " He has borne me safe in too many 
 a hard fought fight to think of it. Captain 
 Tracy save yourself as best you may— I will 
 
 * The following incident is given on the authority 
 of Col. Pickering, who was in the staff of Washington 
 on the day of the battle. 
 
OR THE LEGEND OF THE BLACK UANGEUS. 
 
 m 
 
 take the path in front of the house were the 
 fog is raised by the enemy's fire !" 
 
 And ere Tracy could reply, Washington 
 put spurs to his steed, which sprang through 
 the gateway of the cattle-pen toward Chew's 
 mansion, and leaping over the intervening 
 ground, with the speed of an arrow, bore the 
 Commander-in-Chief toward the house. 
 
 Herbert leaned to one side of his steed, and 
 held his breath. 
 
 Another moment, and Washington wotdd be 
 in the midst of the fire, pouring from the win- 
 dows in front of the mansion. Another mo- 
 ment and his form would fall to the earth rid- 
 dled by an hundred bullets ! 
 
 " He shall not fall alone by the Heaven 
 above us !" shouted the young Ranger, giving 
 his steed the rem, and galloping across the 
 lawn toward the house — " There ! there ! 
 He is in front of the house — he is down ! no ! 
 He passes ! He passes as I live — safe — safe 
 and unscathed! Huzza 1 Away Night-hawks!" 
 
 As Herbert followed in the footsteps of 
 Washington — swept through the blaze of 
 musquetry in front of the mansion — and 
 taking a sudden circuit, disappeared in the fog 
 toward the Germantown Road — as he gave 
 his steed the rein, and rode over the bodies of 
 the dying and the dead, which littered every 
 foot of earth — the shrill and piercing sound of 
 a woman's voice rising in an agony of fear 
 broke upon the air. That sound came from a 
 circular window in the northern wing of the 
 mansion, and the face of Marian Waltham — 
 her eyes dimmed with tears, and her lip quiv- 
 ering with terror — was thrust out into the 
 light, while with clasped hands and heaving 
 bosom, she sent up a prayer to Heaven for the 
 safety of h t lover. 
 
 "Oh! Heaven he is lost!" she exclaimed, 
 as Herbert disappeared in front of the house, 
 "he falls — he falls from his horse — they 
 have killed him — murderers that they are! 
 Nay, nay," she continued, as Herbert re-ap- 
 peared on his way to the main road over the 
 lawn — r " He is saved ! Heaven be thanked ! 
 He is saved ! " 
 
 " Here's a purty how d'ye do in Mr. 
 Chew's house," exclaimed a familiar voice, and 
 Miss Betty Fisher entered the small and dimly 
 lighted apartment with large drops of perspira- 
 
 tion pouring down her round fat cheeks — her 
 apron usually so neat and prim all torn into tat- 
 ters — and her cap, soiled with soot and dust, 
 suspended by a single thread to her hair. 
 " Here's a purty how d'ye do, in Mr. Chew's 
 house ! I raley wish some folks 'ud stay at 
 hum, and take care of their own duds. Oil, 
 lud, such a fright as I've had !" 
 
 Miss Waltham used all her efforts to calm 
 the agitated state of Miss Betty Fisher's mind, 
 but in vain. 
 
 " Jist to think of it ! I jist run down stairs 
 to take a look a'ter the furnitur', and I'd got to 
 the first landing, when what should I see — oh, 
 goodness grashus ! there was Sergeant Thomp- 
 son, sich a nice portly man, a-laying at the 
 foot o' the stairs, all his elegant ruffles kivered 
 with blood, and all the furniture cracked to 
 pieces, the mahogany tables split into bits, the 
 carpets torn up — oh, lud, look there — look 
 out 'o the window, Miss Waltham — there's 
 the ribbles a-corain' to fire the house ! Oh ! 
 now we 11 be burnt up, and Mr. Chew's house 
 will be turned into a bake oven." 
 
 Marian looked from the window, and beheld 
 twelve forms in dark attire emerging from the 
 cover of the fog and running toward the house 
 at a quick pace. At a second glance she recog- 
 nized in the foremost figure the person of Her- 
 bert Tracy, brandishing his rifle, and leading 
 his men in the very blaze of the British mus- 
 quetry. 
 
 The maiden took not another glance at the 
 scene, but seized by a wild impulse of fear — 
 with the idea of her lover's safety uppermost 
 in her mind — she rushed from the apartment, 
 and scarce knowing whither she went, passed 
 down the stair ay, entered an open door, and 
 in a moment stood by the side of Major 
 Tracy, who, begrimed with dust and soot, was 
 directing the fire of the soldiers from the win- 
 dows of the northern parlor on the ground 
 floor, toward which Herbert, unconscious of 
 the vicinity of his father or his betrothed, was 
 fearlessly approaching. 
 
 CHAPTER rOURTEENTH. 
 
 THE MEETING BETWEEN FATHER AND SON. 
 
 " A BAND of twelve determined men might 
 approach the northern window and fire the 
 house," exclaimed Washington, the moment ho 
 
178 
 
 HERBERT TUA.C?, 
 
 was rejoined by the officers of his staff within 
 the American lines. " It is a work of immi- 
 neift danger, however, and every man of the 
 band will, in all human probability, fall a corse 
 beneath the walls, although the attempt to 
 fire the brushwood and timber by the northern 
 window may meet with success. 1 despair of 
 inducing any twelve in the army to make the 
 attempt — what say you, gentlemen?" 
 
 "I will be one of the twelve !" cried Her- 
 bert Tracy throwing himself from his steed. 
 
 " I'll be another !" shouted Harry Heft, im- 
 itating his example. 
 
 " And I another !" echoed Sergeant Brown, 
 placing himself beside the captain and the lieu- 
 tenant. 
 
 " And I another ! and I another !" the cry 
 went round, until every man of the Rangers 
 had thrown himself from his horse and swelled 
 the line of the self-sacrificing band. 
 
 " Here are nineteen men, Captain Tracy," 
 exclaimed Washington, and a gleam of plea- 
 sure brightened in his eye as he gazed upon the 
 tall and muscular forms of the Rangers. 
 
 " The others," replied Herbert, " have laid 
 their bones on the batlle-field." 
 
 " Yes, yes, captain, but twelve men are suf- 
 ficent, and here are nineteen." 
 
 " General ! Have the kindness to divide 
 those who are to remain from the others." 
 
 " Where all are so brave," replied Washing- 
 ion, " the task is no easy one. My friends," 
 he continued, " you who form the left of this 
 brave line be pleased to step aside." 
 
 The seven Rangers stepped aside, their 
 countenances stamped with evident chagrin. 
 
 " Now Captain Tracy, I leave the matter to 
 your discretion. God be with you !" 
 
 With this exclamation Washington rode 
 with his staff to another part of the field, and 
 Captain Tracy made his arrangements for the 
 performance of the desperate task, upon which 
 the success or defeat of the American arms 
 might turn. 
 
 In a few minutes every man of the twelve 
 stood ready to start. 
 
 Six of the number carried torches and com- 
 bustible materials in their hands, while the 
 other six — the captain and lieutenant included 
 — grasped their rifles, loaded in both barrels, 
 with a double charge, and prepared in every 
 respect for immediate action. 
 
 "Rangers," exclaimed Tracy, "when we 
 advance from the cover of the fog, those who 
 have rifles will rush forward, and fire in the 
 very faces of the soldiers who guard the ex- 
 treme north window in the front of the mansion. 
 Those Rangers who bear the torches will then 
 advance — fire the heap of brushwood and tim- 
 ber under the lower window in the northern 
 wall — and while they are thus engaged, the 
 rifles will pour a second discharge into the 
 window, and tlren the entire body will retreat. 
 Forward !" 
 
 Herbert Tracy led the way over the lawn, 
 strewed with dead and wounded, toward the 
 mansion. 
 
 Their path was enveloped in the clouds of 
 batde, and the rain of bullets whistled by their 
 ears or tore up the earth at every footstep. 
 
 It was a dread moment, and every man of 
 the band sent up a prayer to that God before 
 whom he presently expected to appear, and 
 then every heart beat firmly and regularly, 
 and every hand was nerved for the approaching 
 scene of death. 
 
 " By the Continental Congress !' shouted 
 Harry, when they had gained thejr way within 
 fifty yards of the mansion. " Jist look there ! 
 If there aint the old Quaker, Joab Smiley, and 
 the darkey, ' Charles De Fust,' right in the 
 centre of the scrim nvage ! There's a vision, 
 Rangers ! Heaven help my eyes, but I never 
 expected to see such a sight !" 
 
 The Rangers looked across the lawn, and 
 beheld at the distance of twenty paces, the 
 Quaker, kneeling beside a wounded man, who 
 was placed against a tree, while the negro, 
 stood holding a flask at his shoidder. 
 
 The battle was raging around him — men 
 were measuring their graves within arm's 
 reach of the spot where he knelt, troopers^ 
 were sweeping past on their way to join the 
 contest, yet still did that plain, unfearing Qua- 
 ker tender his kind offices to the wounded 
 man, bathe his brow with water, and moisten 
 his parched tongue. 
 
 The unsophisticated negro who stood at his 
 shoulder, half scared to death, by the terrors 
 of the scene, appeared urging him onward to 
 Chew's house, where his mistress was in dan 
 ger, whom with all his fears he was deter- 
 mined to save. 
 
 "The noble Quaker is in danger," ex- 
 
OB THE LEGEND OF THE BLACK RANGERS. 
 
 n9 
 
 claimed Herbert as he glanced at the scene — 
 » But we have no time now to interpose in his 
 behalf! We must onward !" 
 
 Every breath was hushed, as the Rangers 
 began to discern the outline of Chew's Man- 
 sion, looming through the gloom and fog. 
 
 " What mean those torches glimmering 
 through the mist!" exclaimed Major Tracy, as 
 standing amid a body of ten soldiers, placed in 
 the extreme north window of the fuont of the 
 house, he discovered the approach of the Ran- 
 gers. " Ha ! As I live, they are rebels, en- 
 gaged in the execution of some desperate pur- 
 pose. iSow my men, now — yet wait a mo- 
 ment — now, now. Let your aim be sure; 
 pick every man of them-; now !" 
 
 The word of command rose to his tongue, 
 when he felt a hand laid lightly on his arm. 
 
 He turned and beheld the form of Marian 
 Waltham ; her blue eyes glaring wildly, her 
 lips apart, her cheek pale as death, and her 
 golden hair, flowing in disordered masses over 
 her neck and shoulders. 
 
 " Mr. Tracy — beware !" exclaimed the mai- 
 den, clutching his arm convulsively. " Pause, 
 for the sake of Heaven, ere the blood of your 
 son is upon your soul." 
 
 Ere the Major could gather the meaning of 
 the maiden's words, the voice of the foremost 
 Ranger arose without — "Now, Nighthawks, 
 now !" and the blaze of six rifles flashed from 
 the lawn into the open window. Four British 
 soldiers fell heavily to the floor, and with a 
 wild shriek, Marian laid her hand upon her 
 heart, her senses swam in wild confusion, and 
 she sank at the feet of Major Tracy, insensi- 
 ble and motionless. 
 
 " Follow me, every man of you !" shouted 
 Major Tracy, leaping from the window out 
 upon the lawn, while the smoke of the Ameri- 
 ■ can rifles yet hung in heavy folds across the 
 casement, and obscured his vision. '• Follow 
 me, every man of you !" 
 
 Scarce had the words died on the air, when 
 alighting upon the slight embankment in front 
 of the mansion, he glanced around and beheld 
 through the smoke, a body of the Rangers in 
 the act of firing the brushwood, beneath the 
 northern window, while the other division 
 were moving toward the window, raising thfir 
 pieces as they advanced. 
 
 Major Tracy sprang from the embankment: 
 another leap, and he stood within arm's length 
 of the advancing rebels. 
 
 Raising his sword in the air, he glanced at 
 the breast of the foremost Ranger, and pre- 
 pared to plunge it in his heart, when a slight 
 breath of air, wafted the smoke aside, and 
 Major Tracy confronted his son. 
 
 "Oh, God — my father!" 
 
 " My son !" 
 
 He sprang back, with the quick, instantane- 
 ous movement of surprise ; his right arm 
 dropped to his side, and with his dark, flash- 
 ing eyes, starting from their sockets — while 
 his eyebrows were woven together, with the 
 sudden, nervous expression, that trembled 
 along every line of his face — he gazed upon 
 the form of Herbert Tracy. He perused 
 every lineament of his countenance, as if to 
 assure himself that what he beheld was not 
 an Apparition, evoked by a supernatural 
 power, from the very gloom and carnage of 
 the battle-field. 
 
 And there stood the son, the same expression 
 of intense surprise gathering over his face — 
 his dark eyes flashing with the same deep 
 glance — the same frown upon his brow, and 
 his right hand grasping his good rifle drooped 
 by his side, with the same impulse that 
 unnerved his father's arm. 
 
 Oh, what a wild contest was at work in tha. 
 father's heart, as he thus stood gazmg upon 
 the child of all his hopes, now banned and 
 cursed, by those lips that should have spoken 
 but the words of blessing and the sounds of 
 prayer ; how fiercely were tumultuous feelings 
 sweeping over his soul ; how bitter was the 
 struggle between nature and pride ; between 
 the long indulged feelings of natural affection 
 reviving in all their vigor and the new-risen 
 bitterness of worldly ambition, opposing the 
 remembrance of every kindly sympathy, with 
 the stern thought — he has set my will at 
 defiance, let the consequences be upon his own 
 head; he has sown in the storm — let him 
 reap the harvest of his folly in the whirlwind. 
 
 At last words came to the father's tongue, 
 and again the sword was poised in air. 
 
 " Rebel !" he shouted between his clenched 
 teeth — "Not thus did I think to meet you, 
 upon the batrte-field, with the sword of Trea- 
 son in your hand — " 
 
ISO 
 
 HERBKKT TRACT, 
 
 "Father!" — shrieked Herbert, as all the | 
 memories of his life came crowding around 
 his heart. 
 
 " But, now, that we have met here, on this 
 crimsoned sod, foot to foot and hand to hand, I 
 tell you, traitor, that one of us must measure 
 out a grave upon this field. You have a 
 sword — draw and defend yourself!" 
 
 " Father !" cried Herbert, dropping his rifle 
 and spreading forth his hands, " Here is my 
 breast ! I make no defence — I offer no resis- 
 tance — strike, and fulfil your curse !" 
 
 " Friend Tracy, thee must not harm thy 
 child !" exclaimed a voice, familiar to the ears 
 of father and son, and the stalwart arm of the 
 Quaker was thrust before the hand of Major 
 Tracy. " I tell thee, friend Tracy, thee must 
 not harm thee own flesh and blood," repeated 
 the Quaker, as, wresting the sword from the 
 father's hand, with a grasp that it was vain to 
 resist, he very coolly shattered it into fragments 
 upon his knee. " Major Tracy, thee is not 
 in thee right mind, or surely thee would not 
 demean theeself so unwisely. And, young 
 man — does thee hear? — mount thee war- 
 horse, and get thee away from the field ! 
 Does thee not see that the Americans are 
 fleeing around thee ? Away with thee — away 
 with thee ! Thee own men are cut down 
 before thee, in the very act of firing yon win- 
 dow shutter — Ha ! verily !" 
 
 Herbert, unheeding the scene of tumult and 
 blood around him, sank on his knees, and 
 clasped his father by the hands. 
 
 The stout Quaker, Joab Smiley, strode aside 
 to the window, where Harry Heft and Sergeant 
 Brown were struggling amid the dead bodies 
 of their comrades, against five of the British 
 infantry, who had clubbed their muskets, and 
 were raising them over the heads of the sinking 
 Rangers, in the act of dealing the death-blow. 
 
 " Hold, friend, thee must not strike thee 
 brother !' shouted the strong-armed Quaker, 
 throwing himself among the enraged British 
 soldiers, and wresting a musket at every 
 word — " Thee has no business to strike thee 
 brother, friend — what does thee want with 
 this mischievous weapon?" he continued, 
 forcing a musket from the grasp of one of the 
 soldiers — "Nor does thee want this — nor 
 thee this — (Harry Heft, get thee away and 
 fly — thee and thee friend.) Ha ! verily ! 
 
 Friend, friend, does thee resist me ? Wilt not 
 surrender thee weapon ? Then must I use 
 force ! What business has thee a-walking 
 about friend Chew's ground, a-cracking people 
 on the head in this style? Hey? Friend? 
 (Harry Heft, get thee away — thee and thee 
 friend.) Nay, friends, ye must not resist — I 
 am stronger than ye — away, Harry, away !" 
 
 With these and similar exclamations, Joab 
 scattered the muskets of the British soldiers, 
 while Harry Heft and Sergeant Brown were 
 enabled to secure two horses out of the num- 
 ber of riderless steeds that were galloping 
 along the battle-field. 
 
 "I say, Joab — uncle Joab," cried Harry, 
 as he leaned from his prancing horse, " if ever 
 anybody speaks a word against a Quaker in 
 
 my presence, may I be to if I don't 
 
 lick the lie out of their hide, before they can 
 say Jack Robinson ! Hey ! What's that, the 
 Sargent gone, too !" continued Harry, as the 
 brave veteran Brown fell from his horse, 
 wounded by a spent ball. " This has 
 been a bloody day for the Rangers ! Uncle — 
 uncle Joab, 1 say ! Lay hold of yon horse 
 for the Captain! Hallo, there. Captain — 
 don't be kneelin' there to the old gentleman, 
 when you should be makin' yourself missing ! 
 Captain, the day's against us ; the Rangers are 
 all killed, and we must be off"." 
 
 Holding the horse, from which Sergeant 
 Brown had just fallen, in his grasp, the Quaker 
 approached the father and kneeling son. 
 
 " Father, your blessing, your blessing !" 
 exclaimed Herbert, as he clasped the hands of 
 his parent, who was gazing sternly upon him, 
 as the Quaker drew nigh. 
 
 " Herbert, I do not curse — I do not curse 
 you ! But bless you, I cannot, my son, while 
 your sword is raised in most unrighteous 
 treason ! I do not curse, for I cannot heap a 
 deeper curse on you, than the stain of loyal 
 blood, which crimsons your hands ! I must 
 never see you more — never, never !" 
 
 And with these words the stern hearted 
 Loyalist turned away. 
 
 His son never looked upon his living form 
 again. 
 
 " The day is indeed against us !" cried 
 Herbert, turning to Harry Heft — " the Ameri- 
 cans fly on every side, and yonder is Wash- 
 ington trying to stem the current. Let U8 
 
on THE f.QEND OF THE BLVCK RAN'aEB3. 
 
 181 
 
 away — yet hold " — he exclaimed, wheeling 
 his plunging horse around — "I have naught 
 left for which to live — I will die upon this 
 field — I will die with my father's curse upon 
 my head " 
 
 " Nay, young man," exclaimed the Quaker, 
 " that would be desperate, little better than 
 suicide ! Away with thee, away, while flight 
 is in thee power '." 
 
 " Fly, Herbert, fly !" cried a voice which 
 made the young captain's heart throb with a 
 feeling of wild surprise — "Fly, Herbert, for 
 my sake, if not for your own — fly !" 
 
 A fair hand was thurst from the small 
 circular window in the northern wing of the 
 mansion, and Herbert beheld the beaming face 
 of his betrothed. One token of recognition 
 was exchanged, and dashing his spurs into the 
 flanks of his sieed, side by side with Harry 
 Heft, Herbert joined the retreat of the Ameri- 
 can soldiers, who swept in one wild torrent of 
 defeat and disorder over the ground, where 
 they had conquered at the break of day. 
 
 " Massa Smiley — Massa Smiley," cried 
 " Chawls de Fust " issuing from the hall 
 door of Chew's house. " My Missa Walt- 
 ham am safe — she am, gorra-mighty — lor 
 bless us ! Dat am a fac ! Sure's my name's 
 Chawls de Fust." 
 
 " Verily, I must see the damsel " — ex- 
 claimed the Quaker — " She may be in trouble 
 and distress, and I may comfort her. Nay, 
 friends, look not so sourly at me'" — he con- 
 tinued, as he observed the scowling brows of 
 the British soldiers, who were rushing by him 
 to join in the pursuit. " I did but take away 
 your weapons for your good. Verily, I must 
 see the damsel." 
 
 And with that word he disappeared in the 
 hall door. 
 
 Chew's house was now entirely deserted by 
 Its late military occupants who all poured from 
 its precincts, to join the torrent of pursuit 
 which thundered in the rear of the American 
 host. Along the Germantown Road, over the 
 fields and enclosures betwern the village and 
 Chesnut Hill, fled the scattered bands of the 
 American army. In vain did Washington 
 endeavor to breast the tide of retreat, in vain 
 did Pulaski at the head of liis troopers, throw 
 himself before the disheartened fugitives, and 
 urge them by all that they held dear and sa- 
 12 
 
 cred, to face the pursuing foe ! All was in 
 vain ! And Greene and Wayne beheld their 
 men, who had borne themselves so gallantly, 
 ere the bright prospects of the day had been 
 blasted at Chew's house, turn their backs to 
 the foe, and flee in utter despair from that 
 field, where heaven and earth had combined 
 to defeat the American arms. 
 
 How the American army retreated to the 
 wilds of Perkiomen, how the wounded and 
 the dying strewed the way, how the pursuit 
 was maintained, and how most of the dis- 
 astrous consequences of a retreat were avoided 
 by the care and foresight of Washington, are 
 all matters of historical relation, and we turn 
 again to the blood-stained field of German- 
 town. 
 
 CHAPTER FIFTEENTH. 
 
 SUNSET UPON THE BATTLE FIELD. 
 
 The declining sun was again bathing the land- 
 scape in its golden beauty. The sloping hill, and 
 grassy pasturage, the leafy forest, dyed with 
 hues of autumn, and the level plain dotted 
 with orchards and varied by cultivation, all 
 looked more lovely in the setting sunlight — 
 since the raising of the mist had imparled new 
 life and freshness to the view — than when the 
 uncertain beams of the battle-morn glimmered 
 among wreaths of clouds, and threw a dim 
 and pallid light along the darkened air, deepened 
 to the gloom of twilight by the smoke and dust 
 of battle. 
 
 " Will thee mount thee horse, Miss Wal- 
 tham ? Dost not see, young lady, that friend 
 Tracy is mounted and ready to start ? Nay, 
 Betty Fisher do not detain the maiden with 
 thee endless gossip, and Charles, man, what 
 does thee stand grinning at there, like another 
 chessy-cat."* 
 
 With many a warm expression of thanks 
 and courtesy to Miss Betty Fisher for her care 
 aiid attendance, Marian took the hand of the 
 Quaker, and sprang from the hall steps of 
 Chew's mansion, upon her favorite steed, 
 which the watchful " Chawls de Fust" had 
 brought from the mansion on the Ridge Road, 
 to Germantown, since the strife and turmoil 
 of the battle morning. 
 
 The fair form of Marian was robed in a 
 
 Qu 1 Cheshire Cat 
 
182 
 
 HERBERT TRACY, 
 
 green riding habit, which fitted closely and 
 gracefully around her bust and shoulders, with 
 a ruffle of delicate white encircling the snowy 
 neck, while the skirt of the robe fell in 
 voluminous folds over the maidenly proportions 
 of her figure, and resting upon the saddle of 
 her bounding steed, swept in a graceful train 
 until it touched the very earth. Her glossy 
 hair, with all its golden luxuriance, was con- 
 fined by a small riding hood, topped by a 
 ■delicate white plume, and looped in front with 
 a brooch of the brightest lustre, 
 
 IMirian's cheek was deathly pale, and her 
 ■eyes were swollen with weeping, for the 
 thought of her father's death laj' heavy at her 
 lieart, and as she glanced at the tall form of 
 Major Tracy, mounted on his steed at her side, 
 all the scenes of the day that was well nigh 
 fover, and of the preceding night, rose before 
 'her vivid fancy like the fresh remembrance of 
 'the horrors of some terrible dream. 
 
 " Sh-M we move forward, friend Tracy ? I 
 lacks but an hour of sunset — Charles, mount 
 thee horse ; we must be moving." 
 
 " It reely makes me quite solemn-like to see 
 ■you all a-going, aud scarce a soul in the house 
 'but myself !" exclaimed Miss Betty Fisher, 
 advancing to the side of Marian's horse. "Oh 
 ■dear, oh, dear, here's been a purty day of it ! 
 And after the unmannerly soldiers have filled 
 Mr. Chew's house with dead, and broke the 
 furnitur and scattered all the chiney all over 
 •the house — Oh ! goodness me ! They then 
 ■must clear out Colone* Musgrave, Lieutenant 
 VVellwood and all, leavin' me to look to their 
 miserable place ! Oh, lud, Miss Waltham, I 
 «hall never get over this fright for a twelve- 
 month. Don't look so sad — that's a dear" 
 — continued the loquacious house-keeper. "It's 
 a comfort to you to think, that the ribble 
 ofScer didn't run away with you quite " 
 
 " Verily, Miss Betty Fisher, thee will keep 
 us here, listening to this prattle, until to-mor- 
 row morn. Let us push on, friend Tracy." 
 
 '•Good bye, Miss Waltham!" screamed 
 Betty as the party rode over the lawn — "Good 
 bye, and rimirnber me to all inquirin' friends." 
 
 " Gorra-mighty — lor bless me !" chuck- 
 led the negro — " Dat ar' woman got a tongue 
 like de hopper of a flour mill ! Clack — 
 clack — and no stoppin' when it gets agwain. 
 Dat am a fac' 
 
 As Marian rode along the lawn, toward the 
 Germantown Road, on her way homeward, 
 she could not help noting the awful quietne.»s 
 which had gathered over the battle field, in 
 place of the noise and tumult of the morn. 
 
 The grounds, as well as the mansion, were 
 deserted by the British soldiers. The dead 
 were strewn over the surfnce of ine lawn in 
 ghastly heaps. The grass was trodden down, 
 and wet with blood, while every indentation ur 
 hollow of the earth, was filled with a pcol of 
 the crimson current, and here and there were 
 crevices dug in the ground, by the rolling of 
 the cannon wheels, now affording temporary 
 channel^; for the reception of the clotted masses 
 of human gore which made the lawn a marsh 
 of carnage. 
 
 Pieces of broken musquets, fragments of 
 bayonets, remnants of shattered swords littered 
 the ground, mingled with bullets and cannon 
 balls, — all the ten thousand wrecks of war 
 and battle-strife were strewn along, amid the 
 piles of dead bodies. 
 
 The beams of the setting sun gilded the pale 
 faces of the dead, with a momentary light that 
 seemed like a bitter mockery of the ruddy jlow 
 of life, and the warm flush of health. 
 
 Marian beheld death in every shjpe and po- 
 sition. 
 
 Here an American soldier had fallen at the 
 foot of a tree, and died with his back propped 
 ag.iinst the trunk, while his head fell to one 
 side, and his mouth opened with a ghastly 
 grin. One hand clutched the shattered mus- 
 quet-stock, and the other lay stiffened on the 
 wound near his breast. Close by him, a Brit- 
 ish soldier seemed to have been swept down 
 in the very moment of the charge. His back 
 was turned to the sky, one knee was bent as if 
 he had met the death wound when running, 
 and his face was buried in the ground, while 
 his arms were outstretched, and his stiffened 
 fingers were thrust into the upturned earth, as 
 though he had grasped the sod, in the convul- 
 sive throes of mortal agony. 
 
 Farther on lay a heap of dead — American 
 and Briton, Scot and German, interlocked in 
 one ghastly pile of mangled bodies — some 
 with their faces upturned to the sunlight, some 
 with their hands upraised, as if to ward off 
 the descending blow, others with every limb 
 contorted by the spasm that attends a sudden 
 
OK THE LKQKND OP TUB BLACK RANQKUS. 
 
 and a painful death, while some there were 
 who lay extended upon the earth as calmly 
 and quietly as though they had but laid them- 
 selves down to take a pleasant sleep. 
 
 Here lay a youth clad in the rustic dress of 
 an American farmer's boy. He lay on his 
 side, with his tangled brown hair thrown over 
 his forehead, his sunburnt cheek crimsoned 
 with spots of blood, and his plain and uncouth 
 •garments drilled with bullet holes, and torn by 
 sword thrusts. His old-fashioned fowling 
 piece, the companion of many a wild ramble 
 amid the solitudes of the forest, lay near his 
 side, and his arm was stretched out as though 
 he grasped it in his death struggle, but the 
 stiffened fingers could but touch the shattered 
 stock ^ithout enclosing it in their dying 
 embrace. 
 
 And thus along the whole field, in each 
 nook, each grassy hollow, along the surface 
 of each mossy level, were scattered those who 
 had fallen in the morning's struggle, resting in 
 all the ghastliness of death, upon the sod 
 which had bounded beneath their tread at the 
 hour of sunrise. Had aught been wanting to 
 complete the picture, it was supplied by the 
 presence of various mercenary wretches, who, 
 hovering upon the outskirts of ttie field, 
 stripped and plundered the dead, and scared 
 dway a flock of ravens, who had perched upon 
 their victims, in anticipation of a plentiful 
 banquet. 
 
 " God of mercy !" exclaimed the Quaker, 
 as his eye dnink in the horrors of the batde- 
 field, " if ever the fancy might imagine that 
 spirits of the dark world had built a loathsome 
 mockery of every high and heavenly sympathy 
 that dwells in the bosom of man, surely that 
 nificking spectacle is here, for here man — out- 
 raging all feelings of brotherhood, all feelings 
 of affection, all that is good or holy in his 
 nature — has laid his fellow man down upon 
 the earth in all the shapes of death, and every 
 mangled limb and torn carcase, seems to bear 
 witness that the Lord God dwelleth not in 
 man, but rather that he is the temple of the 
 Evil One !" 
 
 As he spoke, the party reached the main 
 road, and Major Tracy spurred on his steed 
 some hundred yards ahead of his companions, 
 and riding in full gallop, he seemed to woo 
 the current of freshening air, as it swept over 
 
 18 J 
 
 his hot brow and burning cheek, without for 
 an instant allaying the fever of his mind. 
 
 CHAPTER SIXTEENTH. 
 
 THE BALL FROM THE GRAVE-YARD. 
 
 Major Tracy, riding along in front of the 
 party, soon reached a point where a quiet 
 grave-yard looks out upon the village street. 
 
 It was then, as it is now, somewhat elevated 
 above the level of the main str«et, and now — 
 as on that battle eve — a wall of dark grey 
 stone separates it from the highway, half 
 shielding its green mounds of eart'h, and its 
 long lines of time-eaten tombstones, from the 
 gaze of the passer-by. He was riding thus 
 leisurely along, with his head drooped low, as 
 if in thought, his eyes downcast, and his hands 
 on his chest, while the loosened rein was 
 thrown carelessly upon his horse's neck ; his 
 entire manner betrayed the absence of all his 
 musiuffs from the real world around him ; he 
 was riding thus leist rely along, and had well 
 nigh gained the grave-yard gate — which 
 opened into the pathway from the centre of 
 the wall — when a loud and startling report 
 broke upon the siill air ; the body of the stern 
 Loyalist swayed in the saddle for an instant, 
 then pitched headlong to the ground. 
 
 At the same instant a line of light blue 
 smoke was observed floating along the grave- 
 yard wall. 
 
 Startled by the report, the attention of the 
 Quaker was instantly drawn to the quarter 
 from whence it proceeded. At the same instant 
 that he heard the quick and jarring sound, he 
 beheld the body of Major Tracy fall heavily 
 to the earth, and the wreaths of pale blue 
 smoke curling in the air above the grave-yard 
 wall. 
 
 Unheeding the shriek that arose from the 
 lips of Marian at the sight, or the yell of horror 
 uttered by the negro, Joab Smiley gave the 
 rein to his horse, and reached the spot where 
 the Major fell, at the very moment when he 
 measured his length upon the ground. 
 
 Joab sprang from his horse, and in an instant 
 the head of Major Tracy rested upon his 
 knee. It needed not a second glance to tell 
 the Quaker that he held a lifeless corse in his 
 arms. The body rested in his embrace with 
 the dull leaden v/eiglit of death ; iho face was 
 
184 
 
 nERHKIlT TRACY, 
 
 pale as ashps. \he. dark eyes bursting from their 
 sockets, glared upon the blue heavens with a 
 cold glassy stare ; and the nerves of the face, 
 along the cheek, and around the mouth, were 
 starting from the skin, with the electric agony 
 of sudden death. 
 
 The silver star, which he wore upon his 
 left breast, was crimsoned by the blood flowing 
 from the wound near his heart. 
 
 Laying the body hurriedly upon the earth, 
 the Quaker sprang over the wall of the grave- 
 yard, and as he alighted upon the rising mound 
 of a new made grave, he beheld the figure of a 
 man, clad in rustic attire, disappearing among 
 the shrubbery which overlooked the rear wall 
 of the grave-yard, and, as he vanished, Joab 
 noted that he held a rifle in his hand. He 
 pursued the retiring figure, but in vain ; he had 
 fled beyond all hope of capture, and the Qua- 
 ker returned sadly to the highway, where a 
 group of villagers had gathered around the 
 corse, and were looking carelessly on, while 
 Marian held the head of the dead man in her 
 arms. The faithful negro servant unfastened 
 his cravat, loosened his dress, threw water in 
 his face, and used every means that his untaught 
 fidelity suggested to restore his master to life. 
 
 "Why seek ye not the murderer ?" shouted 
 the Quaker, throwing himself into the midst 
 of the throng of villagers. " Do ye behold a 
 man cut down in the very glow of life before 
 your eyes, and yet stir not a hand to secure 
 his slayer?" 
 
 " Well, I minds my own business," replied 
 an uncouth looking villager, " I don't know 
 but what I might tell who sent that bullet, but 
 d'ye see, friend Broadbrim, this man (pointing 
 to Major Tracy) is — is a — toryJ D'ye mark 
 me?" 
 
 "Are you men?" cried Marian, glancing 
 around the crowd, while her eyes swam in 
 tears. " Are you men, and have you one 
 feeling of mercy, or pity, or justice, or right, 
 and can ye stand and see a fellow being bleed- 
 ing to death before your eyes, and extend not 
 a hand to his assistance ? Shame on ye I" 
 
 "He was a tory !" cried a second villager. 
 " Go look at Chew's house, and ask for 
 pity !" 
 
 " Look at the pits filled with true Ameri- 
 cans !" exrlaimed a third. " Go look at the 
 
 pits dug in every field for a mile round, and 
 then ask mercy for a tory !" 
 
 " Why, ray friends," cried the Quaker, as 
 his dark grey eye flashed with anger and 
 honest indignation, '■ did ye mingle in the 
 battle ? Are ye so fond of the right cause, 
 and yet struck not a blow in its behalf? Verily, 
 my friends, it is my plain opinion that ye are a 
 pack of pitiful dogs, whose bark is ever more 
 terrible than their bite ! As the maiden sailh, 
 so say I — shame on ye, shame I" 
 
 " You'd better not put any of your hard 
 names on me," cried the ill looking villager 
 advancing, " for all you are a Quaker, I might 
 chance to strike you." 
 
 " Thee might friend, might thee ?" cried the 
 Quaker, as he approached the villager ; ^' verily, 
 friend, thee is of no use here ; but, on the 
 contrary, thee grows troublesome. A litde 
 musing among the tombs may do thee good ?" 
 
 As the Quaker spoke, he extended his 
 sinewy arms, and seizing the villager by the 
 shoulder, very quietly bore him along to the 
 grave-yard wall, and then, with as much ease 
 as may be imagined, sent him plunging over 
 among the tombs with an impetus that tended 
 materially to make this ardent Hater-of-Tories 
 pray earnestly " that he might alight in a soft 
 place." 
 
 With a bland smile on his face, and without 
 any signs of passion or emotion, the Quaker 
 returned to the group, who first eyed his tall, 
 robust form, and his Herculean proportions 
 with a significant scrutiny, and then were eon- 
 tent to vent their spleen in general curses, upon 
 the whole race of Tories, Loyalists, and so 
 forth. 
 
 The sound of approaching hoofs echoed 
 along the village street, and the attention of the 
 group was attracted toward two horsemen, who 
 came galloping from the direction of Chew's 
 House. 
 
 " They are Continentals !" cried a villager, 
 " Continental officers, bearin' a flag of truce to 
 the British army ! I wonder what mought 
 their names be ?" 
 
 " I say, captain," cried one of the horse- 
 men to the other, " in the name o' th' Conti- 
 nental Congress, what does this crowd mean 
 in front o' yonder grave-yard ?" 
 
 " Let us push forward and see," was thej'e 
 
OR TnE LEGEND OF THE BLACK RANGERS. 
 
 185 
 
 ply, and in a moment the foremost horseman 
 pushed through the throng and beheld tlie dead 
 man. 
 
 " Herbert Tracy !" exclaimed the Quaker 
 wiih a start of surprise, but the words died on 
 his tongue, for the son was gazing steadfastly 
 and fixedly in the face of his father, and his 
 chest heaved, and his frame shook with emo- 
 tion, but no tear dimmed his eye. His grief 
 w;is too deep for tears, his agitation too fearful 
 for utterance. 
 
 And as the sun went down on that 4th day 
 of October, in the year of Grace 1777, there 
 they clustered around the body of the dead 
 man, as it lay in the highway of Germantown, 
 in front of the grave yard from which the 
 assassin winged his bullet. 
 
 There was Marian Waltham, bending on 
 one knee, and supporting the corse in her 
 arms : the tears were flooding her cheeks and 
 sobs of unfeigned sorrow were heaving her 
 bosom. There was the Quaker with his plain 
 honest visage and his manly form ; there whs 
 Harry Heft, the bluff soldier, with his face 
 expressive of mingled curiosity and astonish- 
 ment ; there was honest Charles, the negro, 
 weeping for his master ; around were grouped 
 the careless idlers of the village, and over the 
 corse, in the centre of the throng, was the form 
 of Herbert Tracy ; his arms were folded, his 
 eyes were downcast, his dark hair fell wildly 
 back from his uncovered brow, and over each 
 lineament of his face came the expression of 
 unutterable wo that gnawed at his heart-strings 
 for years, and dwelt in his soul until his dying 
 day. 
 
 One thought was gathering over his soul, 
 absorbing every other feeling, and crushing 
 every sentiment of natural grief 
 
 " He is dead — the father that I loved ! 
 And his curse is on me !" 
 
 CHAPTER L.\ST. 
 
 THE RE-UNION. THE EXILE. THE MISERV. 
 
 Autumn passed — winter, with its storms, 
 was over, and spring again bloomed amid the 
 groves and glades of the Wissahikon. 
 
 The day was serene, the air balmy, and the 
 earth glad .with the verdure of the trees, the 
 music of the free streams, and the perfume of 
 wild flowers. 
 
 Two young maidens of different stations in 
 life, as might be seen by their attire, were 
 seated upon the porch of the mansion upon 
 the heights of the Wissahikon. As they 
 gazed abroad upon the face of nature, and 
 drank in the wild delight of sky and forest 
 and stream, while the fragrant air was play- 
 ing amid the tendrils of the wild vine that 
 clomb along the pillars of the porch, they for- 
 got that the house by which they were seated 
 was desolate, that its occupants were scattered 
 abroad, and the silence of its halls but rarely 
 disturbed by the sounds of human speech. 
 
 The light haired maiden glanced at her 
 mourning robe, and she thought of those who 
 slept in the church-yard ; the sparkle of the 
 ring on her finger met her eye, and then her 
 mind was faraway amid the scenes of battle, 
 and her fancy wandered with him who battled 
 in the ranks of war, and who fought against 
 the gloom that was upon his soul. 
 
 The dark haired maiden glanced at the blue 
 sky, at the forest sweeping in all its verdure 
 along the height of the opposite hill ; she lis- 
 tened to the lulling music of the rippling stream, 
 and then her thoughts were with the hardy 
 soldier, whose frank bearing, and rustic manli- 
 ness, had won the admiration and affection of 
 her young heart. She thought of many a ram- 
 ble under that sky, amid those shades, and be- 
 side the lulling murmur of that quiet Wissa- 
 hikon. 
 
 At a short distance from the porch, a tail 
 and robust farmer was engaged in cleaning the 
 walks of the flower-garden, from the mass of 
 weeds and wild grass accumulated by time and 
 neglect. His plain Quaker coat, was resting 
 on the palling of the garden fence, and with 
 his muscular arms unbared, the farmer plied 
 the spade with every mark of alacrity and 
 vigor. Ever and anon he would pause in his 
 employment, and turning his honest visage to 
 the heavens, he would gaze at the deep azure 
 above, then at the forest around, and finally his 
 glance would rest upon the forms of the mai- 
 dens seated upon the porch, whom he regarded 
 with a look of quiet complacency, that told of 
 a mind sobered by experience, taking delight in 
 the calm innocence, the guileless converse, and 
 the ardent hopes of youth. 
 
 A little further on, a shining faced negro, 
 with his arms black as ebony, stripped to the 
 
IS6 
 
 nE:5TIKltT TRACT, 
 
 elbow, was engnged in trailing a wikl vine 
 along an arbor, while his shrill clear whistle 
 broke merrily upon the air, inferspersed with 
 snatches of ditties of every kind and order of 
 poetical merit, which he usually wound up 
 with the loud " Haw-a-whah !" peculiar to the 
 Ethiopean race. 
 
 " This spot is more pleasant to thee. Miss 
 Marian," exclaimed the blacli haired maiden, 
 turning to her fair companion. "This spot is 
 more pleasant to thee. Miss Marian, than the 
 loneliness of the mansion on the Ridge Road — 
 is it not Miss Waltham ?" 
 
 " A thousand feelings, dear Marjorie, com- 
 bine to make this scene one of the saddest as 
 well as the loveliest T ever looked upon. I can- 
 not turn my eye to a flower, a blade of grass, 
 a shrub or a tree, without the vivid revival of 
 some memory of the past. Old faces, and 
 well remembered forma, swim in the air around 
 me — voices that once awoke the echoes of 
 these walls, again sound in my ears — friends 
 dearly and fondly beloved, are once more 
 around me — and all the wo, the sorrow and 
 care of the world are forgotten " 
 
 "Has thee heard of Captain Tracy lately. 
 Miss Marian ?" 
 
 " Yes, Marjorie. But his letters are sad and 
 gloomy, and he seems to be warring a bitter 
 contest with the dark remembrance of the 
 past. He has not mingled with the scenes of 
 battle since the affray of Chew's House, and 
 the terrible event that so fearfully wound up a 
 day of bloodshed and horror." 
 
 " 'Twas a sad thing, the death of Major 
 Tracy. How strange ! That the assassin should 
 never be discovered !" 
 
 " A fearful mystery is around the whole af- 
 fair, Marjorie. Who it was that fired the 
 shot, whether the hand of the murderer was 
 raised in revenge of a private wrong, or from 
 merepartizan enmity, has never come to light. 
 These are times of strife and turmoil — and all 
 the sympathies that bind men together in times 
 of peace, seemed sundered and broken apart." 
 
 "But tell me. Miss Marian, did thy letters 
 speak of — of — Lieutenant Heft ? Is he still 
 with Captain Tracy ? ' 
 
 " The Captain is still by the side of the 
 ('ommander-in-Chief, though he mingles not 
 i'l the strife of battle. His letters speak of 
 Harry Heft in the kindest terms. His qual- 
 
 ities of a free, open frankness, and a speech, 
 perhaps somewhat too blunt and rugged, have 
 proved beneficent to Herbert, and ia the com- 
 pany of his honest friend, he finds a frequent 
 relief from the sorrow that weighs upon his 
 soul." 
 
 A gleam of pleasure brightened in Marjorie's 
 black eye, and a warm glow flushed over her 
 cheek. She was about to reply, when a loud 
 shout broke from the negro " Chawls the 
 Fust," and he was seen dancing about the 
 lawn in every variety of grotesque attitudes and 
 fantastic postures, which his lively imagination 
 suggested. 
 
 " Why friend, thee is surely demented," ex- 
 claimed the astonished Quaker. 
 
 " Massa Smiley, Massa Smilie, d'y« hear 
 dat ar' laugh ? A regular haw-haw ! Dat am 
 Harry Heft's laugh — sure's my name's 
 Charles de Fust ! Massa's comin' home ! 
 Lor bless us — gorra-a-mighty ! Dat am a 
 fac." 
 
 Marian and Marjorie started up from their 
 seats ; the Quaker leaped over the garden 
 fence, on to the lawn, and the whol« party lis- 
 tened eagerly to the sounds of horses' hoofs, 
 which came echoing through the woods from 
 the road which wound a..iong the rocks of the 
 precipice. 
 
 In a few moments all doubt was at an end ; 
 two horsemen emerged from the woods and 
 rode over the lawn, at the top of their horses' 
 speed. 
 
 In an instant Marian was clasped in the 
 arms of her lover, while Harry Heft, unheeding 
 the presence of the staid Quaker, was so very 
 rude as to inflict sundry kisses upon the pout- 
 ing lips of the black eyed Quakeress, and en- 
 fold her pretty figure in a succession of loving 
 embraces. 
 
 " Marian, Marian, my own beautiful 
 Marian" — exclaimed Herbert, as he gazed 
 upon the face of his betrothed, while her kind- 
 ling eyes returned his ardent gaze. " Marian, 
 we shall never part more. I have returned 
 again to the scenes of our earliest love, to 
 scenes hallowed by memory, though darkened 
 by many a bitter sorrow ; I will gaze once 
 more upon the green woods and quiet shades 
 of the Wissahikon and then leave these hills 
 and vales for ever. Marian, will you share 
 the fate of a wanderer and an exile I" 
 
OH Tn3 LEGEND OF THE BLACX UANGEr.S, 
 
 It needed not the whispered words that came 
 frr.m the maiden's hp. to lell Herbert that he 
 was still beloved. The maiden's beaming eye 
 aiid blushing cheek, spoke the thoughts that 
 were flunering around her heart. 
 
 " Marian," whispered Herbert, " our love 
 has been cursed in scenes of joy, it has grown 
 and flourished amid scenes of trial and ,wo, 
 and now, alone as we are in the wide and 
 callous world, we will be all in all in each 
 Other — we will forget in foreign lands that 
 ever our path was shadowed by a single 
 cloud." 
 
 "Why Marjorie, you minx" — interrupted 
 Harry Heft — " how pretty you've grown ! 
 How your dark eyes twinkle? — how your 
 rosy lips open with sich a han'some pout, as 
 though you were good lookin' and you knew 
 it. No, no, Marjorie — there's no use o' 
 poutin' your lips and shakin' your head. We'll 
 be married — that's certain ! See how uncle 
 is shakin' his sides with quiet joy there ! 
 We'll be married for all 1 ain't a Quaker, and 
 I'll away to the wars, and fight many a hard 
 blow for my country j'et, though the Rangers, 
 and Dennis and all — God help me ! — are 
 dead and gone. And I'll c.>me back a live 
 man, I promise you, Marjorie, and we'll be 
 married right off for certain. We will, by the 
 Continental Congress !" 
 
 It wa' the last time Herbert and Marian 
 should ffaze upon the wilds of the Wissahikon. 
 The blue sky was above, the forests were 
 around, the old mansion with its closed doors 
 and fastened shutters, was sleeping in the sun- 
 light. 
 
 The arms of Herbert were entwined around 
 Marian's waist ; her face upturned to his 
 countenance, seared by the lines of premature 
 sorrow, globed with the h-xppiness of the hour, 
 and her bosom heaved and her eyes swam in 
 tears of joy. 
 
 A little apart stook the manly Harry Heft 
 beside the blushing Marjorie ; in the back 
 ground was the negro, dancing for gladness at 
 the joy of others; and in the centre of the 
 group stood the Quaker, Joab Smiley, his 
 honest visage brightening with unfeigned 
 pleasure as he regarded the love and happiness 
 beaming from the faces of all around him. 
 
 It was a scene of quiet joy, and one that 
 
 1ST 
 
 dwelt in the remembrance of those who shared 
 the felicity of the moment through the long 
 lapse of future years. 
 
 Herbert, entrusted with a mission of the ut- 
 most importance to his country, departed with 
 his blooming bride to the gay scenes of the 
 French metropolis, where he remainod until 
 after the American war was terminated by the 
 peace of Versailles. 
 
 Lieutenant Wellwood Tracy, promoted to a 
 Colonelcy, left America for England, and then 
 sailed for India, where his love of pleasure and 
 dissipation soon supplied him with that nar- 
 rowest and quietest of all habitations — a grave. 
 
 Harry Heft and the black eyed Quakeress 
 passed the quiet years of their rustic felicity 
 amid the shades of the Wissahikon, and long 
 after the fresh-grown turf, extending greenly 
 along the lawn of Chew's mansion, had con- 
 cealed all marks of blood and carnage, the 
 blunt soldier and his pretty wife still lived to 
 tell the store of the 4th of October, 1 777 — 
 Harry to describe the scenes of the battle, the 
 charge, the havoc and the retreat, and Marjo- 
 rie to picture the fear and consternation that 
 spread through the habitations of the village on 
 that eventful day, 
 
 Herbert Arnheim Tracy, became known n 
 foreign lands, as an able counsellor in the cab- 
 inet of kings, and tradition relates that after the 
 lapse of years had borne his fair and beautiful 
 wife from earth and its sorrows, a warrior 
 whose brow was seared by the lines of prema- 
 ture age, was known among the bravest of the 
 brave men who drew their swords under the 
 banner of Napoleon, at the carnage feast of 
 Waterloo. He was known by the title of 
 General Arnheim Tracy, designated by cour- 
 tesy " Count Wallingford," rather in re- 
 spect to his ancient lineage, than from an actual 
 possessionof the estates of Wallingford, which, 
 for want of a claimant, had reverted to the 
 British Crown. 
 
 And the murderer of Major Tracy ~— was he 
 ever discovered ? The hand that pealed the 
 shot from the graveyard wall of Germantown, 
 was never recognized with all the accuracy 
 
 and minute detail of circumstantial evidence. 
 But tradition relates, that years after the battle 
 — when the mansion of Major Tracy had 
 
li 
 
 HERBERT TRACY, 
 
 passed into other hands, and events of the Rev- 
 olution had assumed the venerable appearance 
 of antiquity — an aged man, whose frame was 
 broken down with disease, and whose brow 
 was furrowed with the traces of long indulged 
 passions, appeared in the village of German- 
 town, and sought the shelter of the village poor- 
 house. 
 
 In his dying hour, he muttered a dark con- 
 fession of a life of crime and infamy, but the 
 ears of his hearers were in especial attracted 
 by a tale of horror which he told of the even- 
 ing succeeding the battle-morn. 
 
 Returning from the plunder of the dead bo- 
 dies that strewed the battle-field, he sought the 
 shelter of the grave-yard wall, to examine his 
 ill-gotten acquisitions. While thus employed, 
 he observed approaching along the main road, 
 an officer whom he had seen as he prowled 
 from army to army during the day, prominent 
 in the van of the British hosts, heading the 
 charge, and fighting in the thickest of the me- 
 lee. Seized by an uncontrolable impulse, the 
 vagabond raised his piece to the level of the 
 wall, and taking secure aim at the star on his 
 breast, he shot the British officer to the heart 
 and then fled. He knew not why he dealt the 
 blow, but attributed the action to a sudden 
 thirst of bloodshed which possessed him for 
 the moment, together with a dimly defined de- 
 sire to revenge the death of the Americans 
 who strewed the battle-field. He made this 
 
 confession and died, but still a thousand other 
 legends exist with regard to the matter, and 
 point out a thousand other causes of Major 
 Tracy's death. 
 
 How Major Tracy died, and when and 
 where, was ever a matter of deep remembrance 
 to his s(m, but he died with the curse unre- 
 voked and the imprecation unrecalled — that 
 thought harrowed the mind of Herbert Tracy 
 until his dying hour, and hung like a cloud of 
 evil omen over the brightest points of the path 
 way of life. 
 
 And so ends the legend of Herbert Tracy 
 and his gallant band of Rangers, with all its 
 thrilling incidents, which are too much inter- 
 woven with truth and fact, to admit of the 
 " unity and oneness," that give interest and 
 attraction to a story purely fictitious in inci- 
 dent and character. 
 
 The bones of Herbert Tracy whiten a fo- 
 reign soil ; his bride, his fair and youthful 
 bride rests far from the friends, the valley of 
 her childhood ; a lowly mound in a village 
 grave-yard contains the remains of the bluff 
 Harry Heft and his dark-eyed dame, and after 
 a lapse of sixty-five long years, the memory 
 of the battle has become a record of solemn 
 aijd painful history ; yet still around the homes 
 of Germantown, and among the firesides of 
 the quiet Wissahikon, lingers and lives the 
 
 Ccgciib of t!)e Black Hangers. 
 
THE LEG-EMBi 
 
 OF THE 
 
 AMERICAN REVOLUTION. 
 
 BY GEORGE LIPPARD. 
 
 AUTHOR or "THE QUAKER CITY; OR, MONKS OF MONK HALL;" "BLANCHE OP BRANDYWINE; 
 
 "PAUL ARDENHEIM, MONK 0¥ WISSAHIKON ;" "WASHINGTON AND HIS MEN;" 
 
 "MYSTERIES OF FLORENCE;" "MEMOIRS OF A PREACHER " ETC. 
 
 One Large Octavo Volume, witli a Steel Engraving of the " Battle of Germantown," at 
 "Chew's House." Price $1.50 in Paper Cover, or $2.00 in Morocco Cloth. 
 
 ^t^^mmm' 
 
 This work is, emphatically, THE BOOK OF THE EEVOLUTION, of " 1776," and is 
 devoted to the records and legends of the American Eevolution, which it embodies in a series 
 of vivid and original historical pictures. It is the result of five years labor on tlie part of 
 the author. It comprises his researches into the Archives, documents and papers now hid<ien 
 away in the libraries and closets of the Union. It also combines those traditions whicli old 
 men have brought down from their parents to our time, concerning the days of " 1776." It 
 is also the best book that has ever been written on this portion of our history, it being of the 
 days and times of "1776." It is also not merely a history. It is something more. It is 
 a series of battle pictures, with all the truth of history in them, where the heroes are made 
 living, present and visible to our senses. Here we do not merely turn over the dead dry facts 
 of General Washington's battles, as if coldly digging them out of their tomb — but we see the 
 living general as he moves round over the field of glory. We almost hear the word of his 
 command. We are quite sure that we see tlie smoke rolling up from the field of battle, and 
 hear the dreadful roar of the cannon, as it spouts its death-flame in the face of tlie living and 
 the dead. Through all, we see dashing on the wild figure of mad Anthony Wayne, followed 
 with the broken battle-cry of Pulaski; until along the line, and over the field, tlie images of 
 death and terror are only hidden from our view by the shroud of smoke and flame. 
 
 It also comprises life-like descriptions of the battles of Germantown, Saratoga, Quebec, 
 Brandywine, Trenton, Paoli, Red B;ink, etc., with a new and minute description of the Signing 
 and Proclamation of the " DECLARATION OF INDEPENDENCE." 
 
 There is not a relic of the Revolution within a hundred miles of each scene, which has 
 not been visited by Mr. Lippard, not an inch of ground, on tlie old battle-fields, tliat lie has 
 not explored. Hardly any old revolutionary newspaper has been allowed to rest in peace ; 
 that too had to be dug from its garret-grave, and stript of its cob-web shroud, to satisfy tins 
 insatiate hunger for revolutionary history and legends. 
 
 A copy ot this work should be found on every centre-table, or at the fireside of every Patriot 
 and American, and it should be handed down to their children and posterity, as an heir-loom. 
 
 GEORGE LIPPARD'S COMPLETE WORKS. 
 
 THE LEGENDS OF THE AMERICAN REVOLUTION, 1776. Illustrated 51 £0 
 
 THE QUAKER CITY; or, THE MONKS OF MONK HALL. With Portrait 1 50 
 
 BLANCHE OF BRANDYWINE; or, SEPTEMBER THE ELEVENTH, 1777. . . 1 50 
 
 PAUL ARDENHEIM, THE MONK OF WISSAHIKON. With lllustraHons 1 50 
 
 THE MYSTERIES OF FLORENCE; or, THE LADY OF ALBARONE 1 00 
 
 Above are each in octavo fm-m, paper cover, or each one is in doth, price J2.00 each. 
 WASHINGTON AND HIS MEN. Being the "Second Series" of the "Legends of 
 
 the American Revolution." With JUuslraiions 75 
 
 THE MEMOIRS OF A PREACHER ; or, THE MYSTERIES OF THE PULPIT. 75 
 
 THE EMPIRE CITY ; or, NEW YORK BY NIGHT AND DAY 75 
 
 THE NAZ 4RENE ; or, THE LAST OF THE WASHINGTONS 75 
 
 THE ENTRANCED; or, THE WANDERER OF EIGHTEEN CENTURIES... 50 
 
 THE LEGENDS OF MEXICO. Full of Historical Pictures and Battle Scenes 60 
 
 THE BANK DIRECTOR'S SON ; or, LIFE IN A GREAT CITY 25 
 
 jg@- Above books are for sale by all Booksellers and News Agemis. 
 
 B^- Cmnes of any me, or more, or all of the above works, will be sent at once, to any one, 
 po^e prepaid, or free affreight, on remitting price of the ones wanted, to the PMuhers, 
 
 T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS, 
 
 No. 306 Chestnut Street, Philadelphia. 
 
OE, THE 
 
 A ROMANCE of PiilLABELPllIA UE, MYSTERY, and CRIME. 
 
 BT GEOHGE IjIPPAHD. 
 
 AUTHOR OF "LEGENDS OF THE AMEKICAN KBVOLUTION;" "BLANCHE OF BRANDYWINE; 
 
 "PAUL ARDENHEIM, THE MONK UV WISSAHIKON ; " "WASHINGTON AND HIS MEN;" 
 
 "TUB MYSTERIES OF FLORENCE;" "TUE MEjlOIliS OF A I'llEACHER," ETC. 
 
 Complete in One Large Octavo Yolume, with a Portrait and Autograpli of the Author- 
 Price $1,50 in Paper Cover, or S2,00 bound in Morocco Cloth. 
 
 
 No American Novel has ever comnianded so wide-spread an interest, as the above work. 
 It has been made the subject of criticism wlierever the Knglish language is spoken. On one 
 hand, it has been denounced as a work of tiie most immoral and incendiary character; on the 
 other, it has been elaborately praised, as a paini'uliy vivid picture of Life in the Great City. 
 It is written in a graphic style, with its darker passages relieved by portraitures of intense 
 moral interest and beauty. But we advise tlie reader to refer to the work itself. Let him 
 surv^ey its varied Images, and take in the wide panorama of its absorbing plot, from the first 
 chapter wliere the Great Idea of the story is ditaly shadowed, even to the last, where that idea 
 is portrayed in all its details. Tlie character of a pure but tempted woman, illnstrated in 
 "Mary" the Merchant's Daughter, finds a strong contrast in "Dora Livingstone." Again; 
 in " Devil-Bug" the Oatlaw of City Civilization, may be discerned, some of the highest evi- 
 dences of the author's graphic powers, — powers which do not fail him, when he comes to depict 
 the proud Merchant Prince in Livingstone ; the lieartless Sybarite in Lorrimer; tlie wayward, 
 although faithful brother in Byniewood; the fashionable swindler in Fitz-cowies; and the 
 "God-like Statesman" in the corrupt personage, who protects the Forger and the Swindler. 
 
 It is now many years since a prominent member of the Philadelphia bar first began to make 
 notes of his experience of tiie Life, Mystery, and Crime of the Quaker City. These memoranda, 
 fraught with the most terrific interest, .at the death of this aged and most respecled lawyer, 
 were bequeathed to the author, who occupied two years in working them up into this Romance 
 of the Mystery, Crime, and Secret Life of Philadelphia, of the most original character. 
 
 Although all the characters of Philadelphia Life are introduced — the Lawyer, who takes fees 
 from both sides; the Parson, whose private history gives the lie to his public preaching ; the 
 Doctor, who commits a disgusting crime for money ; as well as the dishonest Merchant, the 
 Swell-Forger, the black-mail Editor, the Young Blood about town ; the Fence Keeper, (i-e- 
 ceiver of stolen goods,) etc., etc.; yet has the author painted no living character in tlie pages 
 of his work, but only the distinguishing features of the representatives of a class. 
 
 GEORGE LSPPARO'S COKHPLETE WORKS. 
 
 THE LEGENDS OF THE AMERICAN REVOLUTION, 1776. Illmlrated $1 50 
 
 THE QUAKER CITY; or, THE MONKS OF MONK HALL. With Portrait 1 50 
 
 BLANCHE OF BEANDYWINE; or, SEPTEMBER THE ELEVENTH, 1777. .. 1 50 
 
 PAUL ARDENHEIM, THE MONK OF WISSAHIKON. With UluUratiom 1 50 
 
 THE MYSTERIES OF FLORENCE; or, THE LADY OF ALBARONE 1 00 
 
 Above are each in octavo form, paper cover, or each one is in cloth, price $2.00 each. 
 
 WASHINGTON AND HIS MEN. Being the "Second Series" of the "Legends of 
 
 the American Revolution." With Illustrations 75 
 
 THE MEMOIRS OF A PREACHER ; or, THE MYSTERIES OF THE PULPIT. 75 
 
 THE EMPIRE CITY ; or, NEW YORK BY NIGHT AND DAY 75 
 
 THE NAZARENE ; or, THE LAST OF THE WASHINQTONS 75 
 
 THE ENTRANCED; or, THE WANDERER OF EIGHTEEN CENTURIES... 50 
 
 THE LEGENDS OF MEXICO. Full of Historical Pictures and Battle Scenes 50 
 
 THE BANK DIRECTOR'S SON ; or, LIFE IN A GREAT CITY 25 
 
 JSS^ Above books are for sale by all Booksellers and News Agents. 
 
 S&'' Copies of any one, or more, or all of the above works, mill be sent at once, to any one, 
 postage pre-paid, or free of freight, on remitting price of the ones wanted, to the Publishers, 
 
 T. B. PETES-SON & BROTHERS, 
 
 Ifo. 306 Chestnut Street, Philadelphia. 
 
AUL AR 
 
 BIT GBOBGB IiIFPABD. 
 
 AUTHOR OF "THE QUAKER CITY; OB, MONKS OF MONK HALL;" "BLANCHE OF BRANDYWINE; 
 
 "LEGENDS OF TUB AMERICAN RHVOLUTION ;" "WASHINGTON AND HIS MEN;" 
 
 "MYSTERIES OF FLORENCE;" "MEMOIRS OF A PREACHER," ETC. 
 
 Complete in one Large Octavo Yolume, with a Portrait of the Monk of Wissahikon. 
 Price $1.50 in Paper Cover, or $2.00 bound in Morocco Cloth. 
 
 Paul Ardenlieim illustrates the Secret History of the Bevolution of " 1776." The scene ig 
 now on tlie wild and my.sterious Wi.ssahikon ; now in the streets of old-time Philadel) hia; 
 now among the homes of Gerniantown, and again on the dreary hills of Valley Forge. In 
 its materials alone, it is pronounced to be one of the most singularly interesting works of the 
 age. The characters of old-time Pennsylvania, the wild superstitions, with which tradition 
 has invested the gorge of the VV'issahiUon ; the Monks wlio in the ancient time reared tlieir 
 rustic monastery in its shadows; the .storied graveyards of Gerniantown ; Wharton's House, 
 in Philadelphia, with its celebrated feast of the Meschianza ; the unwearied eflbrts of partizan 
 warfare, the attack by night, t!ie desperate fight, the massacre, and the peril of battle in every 
 shape. Such are a few of the incidents, scenes, and characters of this absorbing work. 
 
 The main conception of the work is at once bold and striking. Taking advantage of an 
 old legend, whose theme is the Weird Horseman of the Wissahikon, the author has relieved 
 the historical portions of his work, by pictures of the dark and thrilling superstitions of old- 
 time Pennsylvania, which, springing from the forests of ancient Germany, foimd such con- 
 genial nurture in our soil. In one word, the book of Paul Ardenlieim is intended as an 
 embodiment of three things. First, The Legends which give interest to the dell of the Wissa- 
 liikon, now grotesque, now terrible, and now sublime. Seco-nd, The Secret History of the 
 Revolution, especially that part of it which reljites to the v.ast Masonic order, whose ramifi- 
 cations extended through all the branches of the army. Third, Of the manners, customs, and 
 superstitious of old-time Pennsylvania. 
 
 The manuscript upon which this work is founded, covers that interesting portion of the 
 history of the American Revolution which has been hitherto secret and unwritten. 
 
 The following localities are embraced in the scenes and p.ages of "Paul Ardenlieim :" 
 
 The Wissahikon. — From Robinson's Mill, along the stream beyond the Monastery, which is 
 yet in existence. 
 
 Laurel Hill. — ^This is the scene of one of the most thrilling incidents of the jEomance. 
 
 Wharton's Souse. — The Tournament of the Meschianza, with the exploit of the American 
 partizan chief. 
 
 Tiie old Stale House. — The Signing of the immortal Declaration of Independence. 
 
 Valley Forge. — The trials and sufierings of the army uader Washington, etc., etc. 
 
 GEORGE LIPPARD'S COBViPLETE WORKS. 
 
 PAUL ABDENIIEIM, THE MONK OF WISSAHIKON. With Jllustratiom $1 50 
 
 THE LEGENDS OF THE AMERICAN REVOLUTION, 1770. Illustrated 1 50 
 
 THE QUAKER CITY; or, THE MONKS OF MONK HALL. '[Vilh Portrait... . 1 50 
 BLANCHE OF BRANDYWINE; or, SEPTEMBER THE ELEVENTH, 1777. .. 1 50 
 
 THE MYSTERIES OF FLORENCE; or, THE LADY OF ALBARONE 1 00 
 
 Abom are each in octavo form, paper cover, or each one is in cloth, price $2.00 each. 
 WASHINGTON AND HIS MEN. Being the " Second Series " of the " Legends of 
 
 the American Revolution." With Illustrations 75 
 
 THE MEMOIRS OF A PREACHER ; or, THE MYSTERIES OF THE PULPIT. 75 
 
 THE EMPIRE CITY ; or, NEW YORK BY NIGHT AND DAY 75 
 
 THE NAZ ■VRENE ; or, THE LAST OF THE WASHINGTONS 75 
 
 THE ENTRANCED; or, THE WANDERER OF EIGHTEEN CENTURIES... 50 
 
 THE LEGENDS OF MEXICO. Full of Historical Pictures and Battle Scenes 50 
 
 THE BANK DIRECTOR'S SON ; or, LIFE IN A GREAT CITY 25 
 
 JSgg- Above books are for sale by all Booksellers and News Agmis. 
 
 K«- Cor>ies of any one or more, or all of the above works, will be sent at once, to amy one, 
 pos^je pre-paid, or free affreight, on remitting price of the ones wanted, to the Publishers, 
 
 T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS, 
 
 No, 306 Chestnut Street, Philadelphia. 
 
BLANCHE OF BRANDYWl 
 
 ou. 
 
 SEPTEIVIBER THE ELEHENTH, 1777. 
 BY GEORGE LIPPARD. 
 
 AUTHOR or "THE QUAKER CITY; OR, MONKS OF MOKK HALL;" "PAUL ARDENHEIM; 
 
 "LEGENDS OF THE AMEKICAN RhVOLUTIOX ;" " W AS[I1KGT0N AND HIS MEN;" 
 
 "MYSTERIES OF PLOKENUE;" "MEllUIllS OF A PREAOHER," ETC. 
 
 Complete in one Large Octavo "Volume. Price $1.50 in Paper, or $2.00 in Cloth. 
 
 "Blanche of Brandy wine" is one of Llppard's noblest ettbrts, and is divided into four books, 
 all of which are contained in this volume, and are entitled, Monthermer; The Kose of Bran- 
 dywine; The Battle Morn ; and Randulph, the Prince. It is a thrilling and heart-stirring 
 romance, containing the Legends, Poetry, and History of the Battle of Brandywine, and is 
 not only a vivid picture of the Battle of Brandywine, but also comprises some of the most 
 beautiful portraitures of female character, ever written in the English language. 
 
 "Blanche of Brandywine" is a continuous Legend of the Eevolution, or rather agroup of 
 Legends, combined in the form of a Romance. The scene is laid on the battle-ground of 
 Brandywine, and the time, from the Eighth to the Eleventh of September, 1777. Among the 
 purely historical characters introduced in the work, will be foimd those of Generals WASH- 
 INGTON, LAFAYETTE, GREENE, MAD ANTHONY WAYNE, STIRLING, SUL- 
 LIVAN, HOWE, CORNWALLIS, LORD PERCY, and COUNT PULASKI. 
 
 The interest of the reader is kept up from the first page to the last, and the- following scenes 
 have been specially noticed by the Press everywhere, for their great interest and power : 
 THE ESCAPE OF WA.SHINGTON. 
 THE CHARGE OF PULASKI. 
 
 THE MEETING OF THE BROTHERS IN THE QUAKER TEMPLE, 
 AMID THE SCENES OF THE BATTLE. 
 
 THE REVENGE OF THE BLACKSMITH HERO. 
 THE CHARGE OF CAPTAIN LEE'S RANGERS. 
 
 Lippard's genius is not all dark and horrible. There is in him, too, the sweetest beauty, 
 flashing out betimes like the dancing aurora up the winter sky. Even amid all the war- 
 horrors of " Blanche of Brandywine," we shall see how the author's soul delights in the 
 images of beauty and purity that seem to flit ever before him in the midst of the darkest 
 delineations. ■ Our whole literature does not contain any more beautiful sketclies of female 
 character than Lippard ha.s given us in his " Blanche of Brandywine," of Rose, Blanche, and 
 the Lady Isidore. All that a pure man could desire in a wife, a mother, or a sister, he will 
 find in this book, made living and beautiful in the lives of these characters. Isidore we shall 
 love forever, for she wa.s not only " magnificently beautiful, but brave, and loving." 
 
 GEORGE LIPPARD'S COMPLETE WORKS. 
 
 BLANCHE OP BRANDYWINE; or, SEPTEMBER THE ELEVENTH, 1777. ..$1 50 
 
 PAUL ARDENHEIM, THE MONK OF WISSAHIKON. With Illustrations 1 50 
 
 THE LEGENDS OF THE AMERICAN REVOLUTION, 1776. Illustrated 1 50 
 
 THE QUAKER CITY; or, THE MONKS OF MONK HALL. With Portrait... . 1 50 
 
 THE MYSTERIES OF FLORENCE; or, THE LADY OF ALBARONE 1 00 
 
 Above are each in octavo form, paper cover, or each one is in cloth, price $2.00 each. 
 
 WASHINGTON AND HIS MEN. Being the "Second Series" of the "Legends of 
 
 the American Revolution." With lllixstrations 75 
 
 THE MEMOIRS OF A PREACHER ; or, THE MYSTERIES OF THE PULPIT. 75 
 
 THE EMPIRE CITY ; or, NEW YORK BY NIGHT AND DAY 75 
 
 THE NAZARENE ; or, THE LAST OF THE WASHINGTONS 75 
 
 TflE ENTRANCED; or, THE WANDERER OF EIGHTEEN CENTURIES... 50 
 
 THE LEGENDS OF MEXICO. Full of Historical Pictures and Battle Scenes 50 
 
 THE BANK DIRECiOR'S SON ; or, LIFE IN A GREAT CITY 25 
 
 ^S' Above books are for sale by all Booksellers and News Agents. 
 
 B@" Copies of any one, or more, or all of the above woi-ks, wUl be sent at once, to any otic, 
 postage pre-paid, or free of freight, on remitting price of the ones wanted, to the Publishers, 
 
 T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS, 
 
 No. 306 Chestnut Street, Philadelphia. 
 
PETERSONS' EDITIONS OF "DICKENS" AND "WAVERLEY NOVELS." 
 
 Charles Dickens' Complete Works. 
 
 — ■«•►- — 
 
 " PctciW Complete Edition for the Million." 
 
 CHARLES DICKENS' WORKS. 
 
 T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS, 306 Cliesinut Street, 
 P/iiladflphia, jpa., have just publishf.d an enlire New, 
 C'teap afid Complete edition of all of the writings, large 
 or small, of " CHARLES DICKENS." Each book is 
 printed from large, clear type, that all can read, and each 
 work is issued complete in a large octavo volume, with 
 a New and diffh-ent Illustrated Cover on each book, and . 
 Bold at the following low pnees. This edition is called 
 
 " Petersons' Cheap Edition for the Million," 
 
 and it is the Cheapest as weU as the Only Edition of the 
 Complete Writings o^ CharU-s Dickens ever printed. The 
 fiiUowing volumes comprise this series : 
 
 A Tale of Two Cities Price25 0enU. 
 
 Oliver Twist " 60 " 
 
 Great Expectations " 50 " 
 
 David Copperfleld " 60 " 
 
 American Notes " 25 " 
 
 Hard Times ... .' " 25 " 
 
 Sketches by "Boz" " 50 " 
 
 Old Curiosity Shop " 60 " 
 
 Barnaby Hudge " 60 " 
 
 Pickwick Papers " 60 " 
 
 Nicholas Nickleby " 60 " 
 
 Martin Chuzzlewit " 60 " 
 
 f jmbey and Son " 60 " 
 
 Cnristmas Stories " 50 " 
 
 Our Mutual Friend " 50 " 
 
 Bleak House " 60 " 
 
 Little Dorrit " 60 " 
 
 Hunted Down! & Other Pieces- " 60 " 
 The Uncommercial Traveller. . " 25 " 
 
 The Holly-Tree Inn " 25 " 
 
 A Message from the Sea " 25 " 
 
 A House to Let " 25 " 
 
 The Wreck of the Golden Mary " 25 " 
 
 Dickens' New Stories " 25 " 
 
 The Perils of English Prisoners " 25 " 
 
 Tom Tiddler's Ground " 25 " 
 
 Somebody's Luggage " -6 " 
 
 The Haunted House " 25 " 
 
 Mugby Junction " 25 
 
 Mrs. Lirriper's Lodgings... — " 25 " 
 Dr. Marigold's Pi-esorlptions . . " 25 " 
 
 Mrs. Lirriper's Legacy " 25 
 
 The Mystery of Edwin Drood.. " 26 " 
 Tne Life of Joseph Grimaldi... " 60 || 
 
 The Pic-NIc Papers " -0 " 
 
 Tour of Two Idle Apprentices.. '' 23 || 
 No Thoroughfare " ^5 
 
 MS- Copies of any or all of the aimie boolcs will be sent 
 to any one, to any place, per first mail, post-paid, on 
 remitting the price of the ones wanted, to the publishers, 
 T. B. Peterson (& Brothers, Philadelphia. 
 
 ^ BookselUrs, News Agents, Canvassers, and all 
 others, will be supplied with " Pelmons' Cheap Milion 
 for the Mittion" of "Charles Dickens- Works," by the 
 hundred, at very low rates. 
 
 f^ Above edition of 'Dickens' is for sale by all Book- 
 
 sellers. Ask for " Petersons' Edition of Dickens,' " and 
 
 take no other. Address all orders and remittances, to re- 
 
 ceive immediate and prompt attention, to the Publishers, 
 
 T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS, 
 
 306 CiestuTit Street, Philadelphia, Pa. 
 
 25 Cent Edition of 'Waverley Novels. 
 " Petersons' Complete Edition for tie Million." 
 
 THE WAVERLEY NOVELS. 
 
 26 Volumes, at 25 Cents each ; or $5.00 a Set, 
 
 T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS, 306 Chestnut Street, 
 Philadelphia, Pa., have just published a new and cJieap 
 edition of "THE "WAVERLEY NOVELS," by SIR 
 WALTER SCOTT. Each book is printed on fine white 
 paper, from plain, clear type, and each work is issued in 
 a large octavo volume, with a New Illustrated Cover on 
 each book, and sold at the low price of Twenty-five cents 
 a volume, or Five Dollars for the complete set, which is 
 conlained in twenty-six volumes, and will be sent every- 
 whej-e, post-paid, at these rates. This edition is called 
 
 " Petersons' Cheap Edition for the Million," 
 
 It is the Otieapest as well as the Only Complete Edition 
 of the Waverley Novels published in this country, as it 
 contains all the Author's notes, as well as all his last cor- 
 rections and additions. It comprises the following works : 
 
 Ivanhoe Price 25 Cknls. 
 
 The Antiquary " 26 " 
 
 "Waverley " 25 " 
 
 The Monastery " 25 " 
 
 Guy Mannering " 25 " 
 
 The Abbot " 25 " 
 
 Hob Hoy " 25 " 
 
 The Fair Maid of Perth " 26 " 
 
 Old Mortality " 25 " 
 
 The Betrothed " 25 " 
 
 Woodstock " 25 " 
 
 The Bride of Lammermoor " 25 " 
 
 Peveril of the Peak " 25 " 
 
 The Pirate " 25 " 
 
 Annie of Geierstein " 26 " 
 
 The Highland Widow " 25 " 
 
 Saint Bonan's Well " 26 " 
 
 The Fortunes of Nigel " 25 " 
 
 Eedgauntlet " 26 " 
 
 The Heart of Mid Lothian " 25 " 
 
 Kenilworth " 25 " 
 
 The Black Dwarf " 26 " 
 
 Quentin Durward " 25 " 
 
 The Surgeon's Daughter " 25 " 
 
 Count Robert of Paris " 25 " 
 
 The Talisman " 25 " 
 
 JB^ On receipt of Five Dollars, we will mail, post-paid, 
 to any address, the entire set of Petersons' New, Cheap and 
 Beautiful edition of " Tlie Waverley Novels," in Twenty- 
 six volumes, together with a Proof Impression of a Por- 
 trait of Sir Walter Scott, engraved on steel from Newton's 
 Original Picture, painted at Abbotsford, which J. G. 
 Loclchart, Esq., says in his Life of Scott, "was the best 
 portrait ever taken of Sir Walter Scott." 
 
 its' Copies of any of the Waverley Novels wilt be 
 sent to any one, per mail, post-paid, on remitting Twenty - 
 five cents for each one r/rdered, to the publishers. 
 
 ;KS" Booksellers, News Agents, and all others, will be 
 supplied by the hundred, at very low rates. 
 
 jeS" Above edition is for sale by all Booksellers. Ask 
 for " Petersons' Edition of the ' Waverly Norels,' " and 
 take no other. Address all orders and remittances, to re- 
 ceive iihmediate and prompt attention, to the Publishers, 
 T.B. PETERSON & BROTHERS, 
 306 Chestnut Street, Philadelphia, Pa. 
 
GET UP CLUBS FOR 1876! UNRIVALLED ATTRAGT/OH/S! 
 
 ■'S MAaAZINE 
 
 H^^THE CHEAPEST AND BEST OF ALL.-^lr 
 
 
 «®* OUR CENTENTfXAL GUTT ! Every subscriber for «* Peterson's Magazine " for 1S76 win 
 receiTe, as a supplement, a bandsonae steel engp-'aving for framing, (size 10 incbes by 15,) tbe 
 Gubject being " Tbe Signing of tlie Ueclaration of Independence," after tbe celebrated picture, 
 ivitb cotemporary portraits, by Col. Jobn. Trumbull, This engraving -will be executed, witbout 
 regard to cost, by lUman Brotbers, and Tvill be "Peterson's** Centennial Gift to its 150,000 
 
 subscribers. *=^ 
 
 wm r--^^^ » »^% !■ 
 
 "PETERSON'S MAGAZINE" is already ffte best and cheapest of its lind in the world. Its snbscription price Ig 
 only TWO DOIXAliS A YEAR, or about half the price of periodicals ol its class. BUT IN 1S76 GREATLY INCREASED 
 ATTRACTIONS WILL BE ADDED TO IT. Amoug these new features will be a series of illustrated articles on tbe 
 Declaration of Independence, &c., &c., which will be given without interfering with the usual variety of stories, novelets, 
 &c., &.C. Also a series of iilustrated nrticka on the Great Centennial EsniBiiiON, at Philadelphia, in 1876, so that persona 
 ■who cannot come to it, ^nay yet see it, as it wcre^for themselves; the whole to be published under the appropriate title of 
 
 THE CENTENNIAL IN PEN AND PENCIL! 
 
 "PETERSON" has always "b^en prc-cmiTifnthj national. Its stories are all original and all by American ■nriters; 
 ond they are coricedrd to be the best published anywhere. Iilrs. Ann S. Stephens, I'rauk Lee Benedict, Mrs. R. Harding 
 Davis, E. Hodgson Burnett, Jeanie T. Gould, and all the best female ivHtcrs of America, are regular contributors. In. 
 addition to 100 shorter stories, there are being given, in 1S76, Fix'e Original Copyrighied Novelets. 
 
 In the nmnher and beauty of its Illusti-ations, " pjJTERSOJST '' is uni'ivalled. The Publisher challenges a com- 
 parison between its 
 
 '^g*- STEEL Ar^D ^EZZ©TS^T'Ei^CRA¥inCS^^|r 
 
 And the inferior engravings elsewhere. "Peterson's," also, is the only magazine that gives, 
 
 itii Colored Fastiioo Plates! 
 
 These are printed from pteel plates, and colored by hand, in the highest style of art. Patterns of the newest 
 bonnets, hats, cloaks, jackets, etc., etc., appear iu each number. Also the greatest variety of children's dresses 
 Also, PATTER::S KOU EYtKY DAY DRi-.WSES, iii Calico, Delainp, &c., &c. Also diagrams, by which dresses can 
 be cut out. " Peterson " is unrivailed as a guide for the fashions. You do not know what to wear till you sec ^^ Peterson.*'' 
 
 COLORED PATTERNS IN EMBROIDERY, CROCHET, Etc. 
 
 COLORED DESIGNS FOR SLiPPERS, SOFA GUSH IONS, CHAIR-SEATS, &c.,— each of which at a retail 
 Htore would cost Fifty Cents or more. "Peterson" is the only magazine that gives these patterns. RECEIPTS FOR 
 COOKING, THE TOILETTE, SICK ROOM, Etc. NEW AND FASHIONABLE M U S 1 C in every number. Also, 
 Hints on Horticulture. 
 
 jKirKemember ! %ve pre-pay postage to all inail subscidbers. ITormerly the subscriber had 
 to pay it at his or licr post-office, at an expense of from tTvelve to t"weiity-four cents each^ extra. 
 Now that we pre-pay the postage, " PKXEKSON " IS CHEAPEK THAN EVEK.-=®81 
 
 OKE COPX, ONE XEAK, (Postage Free,) . . TWO DOIiiAKSl. 
 
 iJiiB^M^s. ^wwwim.^ w&m. 'csx.'orsi 
 
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 8 Copies, one year, (postage free,' 
 
 9 Copies, one year, (postage free/ 
 13 Copies, one year, (postage free, 
 
 $3.60 
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 I songel 
 
 PREMIUM FOTITIIE CLUB.— Withacory of onrstiperb 
 ■size mezzotint (size "4. inches by 2u) postage free 
 HRiSTMAS MoKNi:fo," a file dollar er^ruvuig, to the jxi 
 getting up the club. 
 
 ■With both an extra copy 
 
 free, and a copy of our 
 
 free, "Chp.istmas Mohning," 
 
 ''or five dollars,) to the person 
 
 In Bemitfting-, pret n I*ost-Offiice Order on PhiladeiphiJt, or a draft on Philadelphia or New York: If 
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 Audress, post-paidf ^^ ____ 
 
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 No. 306 Chestnut Street, Philadelphia, Pa. 
 
CHEAPEST BOOK HOUSE IN THE WORLD 
 
 IS AT THE PUBLISHING AND BOOKSELLING ESTABLISHMENT OF 
 
 T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS, 
 
 No. 308 Cliestniit Street, PMladelpliia. 
 
 T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS, Philadelphia, are the American publishers of the 
 popular and fast-selling books written by Mrs. JLmma D. E. N. Southwokth, Mrs. Ann 
 S. Stephens, Mrs. Caroline Lee Hentz, Miss Eliza A. Dupuy, Mrs. C. A. Warfibld, 
 Mrs. Henry Wood, Q. K. P. Doesticks, Emerson Bennett, T. S. Arthur, George 
 Lippard, Hans Breitmann (Charles G. Leland), James A. Maitland, Charles 
 Dickens, Sir Walter Scott, Charles Levee, Wilkie Collins, Mlis. C. J. Newby, 
 Justus Liebig, W. H. Maxwell, Alexander Dumas, George W. M. Reynolds, 
 Samuel Warren, Henry Cockton, Fredrika Bremer, T. Adolphus Teollope, 
 Madame George Sand, Eugene Sue, Miss Pardoe, Frank Fairlegh, W. H. Ains- 
 woRTH, Frank Forrestbk (Henry W. Herbert), Miss Ellen Pickering, Captain 
 Marryatt, Mrs. Gray, G. P. R. James, Henry Morford, Gustave Aimaed, and 
 hundreds of other authors; as well as of Dow's Patent Sermons, Humorous Americas 
 Books, and Miss Leslie's, iliss Widdifield's, The Young Wife's, Mrs. Goodfellow's. 
 Mrs. Hale's, Petersons', The National, Francatelli's, The Family Save-All, 
 The Queen of the Kitchen, and all the best and popular Cook Books published. 
 
 . T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS take pleasure in calling the atlention of the entire 
 Reading Community, as well as of all their Customers, and every Bookseller, News Agent, and 
 Book Buyer, as well as of the entire Book Trade everywhere, to the fact that they are now 
 publishing a large number of cloth and paper-covered Books, in very attractive style, including 
 a series of 25 cent, 50 cent, 75 cent, $1.00, $1.60, $1.75, and .$2.00 Books, in new style covers ana 
 bindings, making them large books for the money, and bringing them before the Reading 
 Public by liberal advertising. They are new books, and are cheap editions of the most popular 
 and most salable books published, are written by the best American and English authors, ai.i'i 
 are presented in a very attractive style, printed from legible type, on good paper, especially 
 adapted to suit all who love to read good books, as well as for all General Reading, and for sal<. 
 at Hotel Stands, Railroad Stations and in the Cars. They are lurnished by us to all Bookselltr," 
 an-l News Agents at such a low price that they pay the seller a large ]irotit, and will meet with a 
 ready sale wherever they are properly intro'duced. They are in fact the most popular series of 
 works of fiction ever pnblisbed, retailing at 25 cents, 50 cents, 75 cents, $1.00, $1.50, $1.75, ard 
 $2.00 each, and they comprise the writings of the best and mist pojiular authors in the woild, 
 all of which will be sold by us to the trade at very low prices, and also at retail to everybody. 
 
 ^®~ New books are issued by us every week, comprising the best and most entertaining 
 works published, suitable for the Parlor, Library, Sittincj-Boom, Railroad or Steamboat reading, 
 and are written by the most popular as well as by the best writers in the world. 
 
 ^®~iny bookseller, or anv person wanting any books at all, from a single book, to a dozen, 
 a hundred, a thousand, or larger quantity of books, had better send a letter to us at once, asking 
 for a copy of Petersons' New Illustrated Catalogue, then look carefully over it, marking what 
 books you may want, and then send on the order at once to T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS, 
 Philadelphia, Pa., to fill, who publish over One Thousand Books, and have the largest and most 
 salable list of popular books to select from in the country. 
 
 ^®- Enclose a draft for five, ten, twenty, fifty, or one hundred dollars, or more, to us in a 
 letter, and write for what books you wish, and on receipt of the money, or a satisfactoi-y refer- 
 ence, the books will be packed and sent to you at once, in any way you may direct, with 
 circulars, show-bills, etc., to post up. 
 
 ^@- We want every Bookseller, and every News Agent, everywhere, to sell our books and 
 to keep an assortment of them on hand, and to send at once for a copy of our New and Com- 
 plete Descriptive Catalogue, which contains a list of all books published by us all or anv ot 
 which will be sold to everybody in the Book Trade, to Booksellers, or to News Agents, at very 
 low rates. There are no books published you can sell as many of, or make as much money on 
 a^ Petersons'. Send us on a trial order. All orders, large or small, will be sent tha day the 
 order is received, and small orders will receive the same promptness and care as large orders. 
 
 ^^All Books named in Petersons' Catalogue will be found for sale by ^H booksellers and 
 Nawf^ents, or copies of any one book, or more, or all of them wil be ^7*/° ^.">' 7?{,^Vo"ks 
 to any place, per mail, post-paid, or free of freight, "" remitting *«Jf*^^l P^^j^^*" ^°''^' 
 w.iated to the Publishers, T. B. Peterson & Brothers, .306 Chestnut Street, Phiiadelplua. 
 
 2^- WANTED —A News Agent, Bookseller, or Canvasser, in every city, town or viLnre 
 on t^Coktinent to engage in tKe s'ale of Petersons' New and Popular Fast Selling Books, 
 oa which large sales, and large profits can be made. 
 
 their orders and letters, to meet with immediate attention, to 
 
 T. B. PETERSON and BROTHERS, Pwblisliers, 
 
 306 Cliestnut Street, PlxHadelpliia, Pa, 
 
GEORGE LIPPARD'S WORKS. 
 
 T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS, No. 306 Chestnut Street, Philadelphia, have just 
 published an entire new, complete, and uniform edition of all the celebrated works written by the 
 popular American Historian and Novelist, George Lippard. Every Family and every Library in 
 this country, should have in it a set of this new edition of his works. The following is a complete 
 
 LIST OP GEORGE LIPPARD'S WORKS. 
 
 THE LEGENDS OP THE AMERICAN REVOLUTION, 1776; or, 
 WASHINGTON AND HIS GENERALS. By George Lippard. With a steel 
 Engraving of the "Battle of Germantown," at "Chew's House." Complete in one large 
 octavo volume. Price $1.50 in paper cover, or bound in morocco cloth, price $2.00. 
 
 THE QUAKER CITY; or, THE MONKS OF MONK HALL. A 
 
 Eomance of Philadelphia Life, Mystery, and Crime. By George Lippard. 
 With his Portrait and Autograph. Complete in one large octavo volume, price $1.50 in 
 paper cover, or bound in morocco cloth, price $2.00. 
 
 PAUL ARDENHEIM, THE MONK OF WISSAHIKON. A Romance 
 of the American Revolution, 1776. By George Lippard. Illu-strated. Complete 
 in one large octavo volume, price $1.50 in paper cover, or bound in morocco cloth, price $2.00. 
 
 BLANCHE OF BRANDYWINE ; or, SEPTEMBER THE ELEV- 
 ENTH, 1777. By George Lippard. A Romance of the Revolution, as well as of the 
 Poetry, Legends, and History of the Battle of Brandywine. Complete in one large octavo 
 volume, price $1.50 in paper cover, or bound in morocco cloth, price $2.00. 
 
 THE MYSTERIES OF FLORENCE; or, THE CRIMES AND 
 MYSTERIES OF THE HOUSE OF ALBAEONE. By George. Lippard. 
 Complete in one large octavo volume, price $1.00 in paper cover, or $2.00 in cloth. 
 
 WASHINGTON AND HIS MEN. Being the Second Series of the 
 Legends of the American Revolution, 1776. By George Lippard. With 
 Illustrations. Complete in one large octavo volume, paper cover, price 75 cents. 
 
 THE MEMOIRS OF A PREACHER; or, THE MYSTERIES OF 
 THE PULPIT. By George Lippard. With Illustrations. Complete in one large octavo 
 volume, paper cover, price 75 cents. 
 
 THE EMPIRE CITY; or, NEW YORK BY NIGHT AND DAY. 
 
 Its Aristocracy and its Dollars. By George Lippard. Complete in one large octavo 
 volume, paper cover, price 75 cents. 
 
 THE NAZARENE; or, THE LAST OF THE WASHINGTONS. 
 
 By George Lippard. A Revelation of Philadelphia, New York, and Washington. Com- 
 plete in one large octavo volume, paper cover, price 75 cents. 
 
 THE ENTRANCED; or, THE WANDERER OF EIGHTEEN 
 CENTURIES, containing also, Jesus and the Poor, the Heart Broken, etc. By George 
 Lippard. Complete in one large octavo volume, paper cover, price 50 cents. 
 
 THE' LEGENDS OF MEXICO. By George Lippard. Composing Legends and 
 Historical Pictures of the Camp in the Wilderness ; The Sisters of Monterey ; The Dead 
 Woman of Palo Alto, etc. Complete in one large octavo volume, paper cover, price 50 cents. 
 
 THE BANK DIRECTOR'S SON. A Revelation of Life in a Great City. By 
 George Lippard. Complete in one large octavo volume, paper cover, price 25 cents. 
 
 t&° Above Books are for sale by all Booksellers, or copies of either one or more of the above 
 booh, or a complete set of them, will be sent at once, to any one, to any place, postage pre-paid, or 
 free of freight, ore remitting the price of the ones wanted, in a letter to the Publishers, 
 
 T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS, 
 
 No. 306 Chestnut Street, Philadelphia. 
 
CHEAPESTJtOOiy^ WORLD 
 
 T. B. PETERSON &. BROTHERS, 
 
 Publishers and Booksellers, No. 306 Chestnut Street, Philadelphia, Pa. 
 
 New Books Issued every week, comprlBing the most entertatnlDg and absorbing workB published, suitable for the 
 Parlor, Library, SittlDg-Koom, Railroad or Steamboat Beading, by the beat and most popular writers in tho world. 
 
 Any person wanting any books at all, from a single book to a dozen, a hundred, thousand, or larger quantity of books, had 
 betterlook over this Catalogue, and mark what they want, and send on their orders to T. B. PETEllSON & BllOTIIERS, 
 Fliiladelphia, Pa., who publish over One Thousand Books, and have the largest stock to select from. In the country. 
 
 Enclose ten, twenty, fifty, or one hundred dollars, or more, to us In a letter, andwrlte what klr.d of books you wish, and on 
 receipt of the money they will be packed and sent to you at once, In any way you direct, wUh circulars, show-bills, &c. 
 
 Address all orders to T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS, Phllada., Pa. ^[y Large diacounta given to the Trade.-CI 
 (J^ All booka are aent free of postage hy us, on receipt of retail price, when not to he had of your Bookseller or News Agent. 
 
 ]ttRS. SOUTHWORTH'S 'WORKS. 
 
 In S3 volumes, cloth, full gilt back,fror 
 price £1.75 each ; or JSE66.A0 a set, tach set 
 
 The Spectre Lover I 75 
 
 How He Won Her 1 75 
 
 A Beautiful Fiend 1 7S 
 
 The Artistes Love 1 75 
 
 ANobleLo^d 1 75 
 
 Lost Heir Linlithgow..! 75 
 
 Tried For Her Life 1 75 
 
 Cruel as the Grave 1 75 
 
 The Maiden Widow.... 1 76 
 
 The Family Doom 1 75 
 
 The OhrlatmaS'Ouest....l 75 
 
 The Bride's Fate 1 75 
 
 The Changed Brides — 1 75 
 
 FallenPride 175 
 
 The Widow's Son 1 75 
 
 Bride of Llewellyn 1 75 
 
 The Fortune Seeker 1 75 
 
 ievt designa, 
 a neat box. 
 
 The Lost Heiress 1 75 
 
 Ladyofthelsle 1 75 
 
 The BrIdalEve 1 76 
 
 Deserted Wife 1 75 
 
 The Two Sisters 1 75 
 
 The Three Beautle 1 76 
 
 Vlvlai Secretol'Power..l 75 
 
 Prince of Darkness 1 75 
 
 The Fatal Marriage 1 75 
 
 Love's Labor Won 1 75 
 
 The Gipsy's Prophecy..! 76 
 Haunted Homestead....! 76 
 
 Wife's Victory 176 
 
 The Mother-ln-Law 1 75 
 
 Retribution 175 
 
 India; of Pearl River...! 75 
 
 Curse of Clifton 1 76 
 
 Discarded Daughter....! 75 
 Allworth Abbey 1 76 
 
 Miriam, the Avenger; or, The Missing Bride 1 76 
 
 Above are in cloth, or in paper cover at S!<50 each. 
 
 MRS. ANN S. STEPHENS' WORKS. 
 
 In 21 volumes, cloth, full gilt back, from neto designs, 
 price 81.75 each; or 53G.75 a ■«(, each act in a neat box. 
 
 Bellehood and Bondage.! 76 
 
 The OldCouDtess 1 75 
 
 Lord Hope's Choice 1 75 
 
 The Reigning Belle....! 75 
 
 ANobleWoman 1 73 
 
 Palaces and Prisons ... .1 75 
 
 Married In Haste 1 75 
 
 Wives and Widows 1 76 
 
 Ruby Gray's Strategy..! 7fi 
 
 Curse of Gold 1 75 
 
 Mabel's Mistake 1 75 
 
 Above are in cloth, or in paper cover at £1.50 each. 
 
 CAROLINE LEE HENTZ'S WORKS. 
 
 In 12 volumes, cloth, full gilt back, from new designs, 
 price 51.75 each; or 521.00 a set, each i ' ' 
 
 TheSoldier'sOrphans..! 75 
 
 Silent Struggles ,176 
 
 The Wife's Secret ! 75 
 
 The Rejected Wife 1 75 
 
 MaryDerwent 1 76 
 
 Fashion and Famine....! 76 
 The Old Homestead....! 75 
 
 The Heiress 1 75 
 
 The Gold Brick ! 76 
 
 Doubly False ! 75 
 
 Ernest Linwood I 76 
 
 The Planter's Northern 
 
 Bride 1 75 
 
 Linda ; or Young Pilot 
 
 of the Belle Creole . . . . ! 76 
 
 Robert Graham ! 75 
 
 CourtshlpandMarrlage.l 75 
 
 Rena; or the SnowBird.l 75 
 
 Marcus Warland 1 76 
 
 Love after Marriage....! 76 
 
 Eoline ! 75 
 
 The Banished Son 1 75 
 
 The Lost Daughter 1 76 
 
 Helen and Arthur 1 75 
 
 Above are in cloth, or in paper cover at jjl.50 each. 
 
 FREDRIKA BREMER'S WORKS. 
 
 Complete in eix volumes, bound in cloth, gilt back, 
 price SU76 each; or $10.50 a Bet, each Bet in a neat box. 
 
 rather »nd Daughter...! 75 i The Neighbors 1 7S 
 
 The Four Sloters 1 73 I The Home ...1 75 
 
 Above are in cloth, or In paper oorer at »1.50 eaoh. 
 Life in the Old World. IntwoTOlB.,cloth,priee....S3 60 
 
 JAMES A. MAITLAND'S WORKS. 
 
 Complete in seven volumes , bound in cloth, gilt back, 
 price gl.Ti each; or S12.26 a set, each set in a neat box. 
 
 The Watchman 1 75 I Diary of an Old Doctor .1 75 
 
 The Wanderer 175 Sartaroe J 'J 
 
 The Lawyer's Story. ...1 76 I ThcThree Cousinj. .1 75 
 The Old Patroon i or the Great Van Broek Property. .1 76 
 
 Above areln cloth, or in paper cover at «1.60 each. 
 
 BEST COOK BOOKS PUBLISHED. 
 
 The Queen of the KItchcu, ' Old Maryland Eeceipti .1 75 
 
 MlsB Lcille'B New Beoelpts for Cooking l 75 
 
 Mrs. Hale's New Cook Book | '? 
 
 The Young Wife's Cook Book.. J '? 
 
 Miss Leslie's New Cookery Book.......... ^ '? 
 
 Mr. Oondfellow'sOookeryasit Should Be. ....... .-..a io 
 
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 Was He Guilty 1 75 
 
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